By bus from Asunción, Paraguay to Santa Cruz, Bolivia: have we finally seen it all?

Jodanga Hostel, Santa Cruz, Bolivia

Even with the fan running incessantly it is just bearable in this nice and spacious hostel room. I tell myself to enjoy it, because as of tonight it will be much cooler: we are going to take a plane to La Paz this afternoon, shortening the travel time from about 20 to only one hour. It's a bit sad that we'll have to miss the 'Bolivian bread basket', an important agricultural area, but we felt we needed to speed up our travel in order to not be in a panic later. Also – and this might be the more important reason – we needed a break from bus driving after the latest trip.

With a few phone calls Thomas, the very helpful owner of the 'El Jardin Hostel' where we stayed in |Asunción, found out that there was indeed only one way to get from Asunción to Bolivia, information confirmed later at the tourist information downtown: one bus every evening, leaving at 8, arriving about twenty hours later in Santa Cruz. Looking at the map it doesn't really seem to make sense to go to that particular city: Sucre and Potosí are closer, but lack the economic importance of this modern, fast growing city of more than 1.5 million people. We had no choice, then: either take the only available bus or take a plane.

About eight hours along the way, we read in our travel guide, is an area with several Mennonite communities. They have kept their German customs and language, and, it said, were happy to show off not only their tidy little towns but also their well run farms, mostly dairy and cattle. We would have loved to interrupt our journey there for a day or so, but the little information Thomas could find out was not very encouraging: Filadelfia, the main community, lies about fifteen kilometres off the Chaco road – and we would have arrived there in the middle of the night. Not only that, but we would need to flag down the bus at the same late hour the next night. There is no guarantee, of course, that it really does take eight hours to get there for the bus; it could easily be ten or twelve. The prospect of standing at an intersection in the middle of the night, waiting for a bus with uncertain schedule, proved too much even for our sense of adventure. If only we could have found out more! Logic told us that there had to be a way to get to and from the intersection, there might have been a truck stop or even a hotel there – but it seems to be such a little pursued route for tourists that it was all too vague for us. Twenty hours it would be, then.

Together with a group of other travellers we awaited the arrival of our bus at the huge terminal in Asunción. As far as we could see there were four other backpackers among them, two German girls and a young French couple. Given the fact that this is not one of the most frequented tourist routes (though not supposed to be dangerous, as far as our information went) it was reassuring that we weren't the only foreigners on that bus, especially since we again had to cross a border.

Eagerly every new bus arrival was inspected – no, still not the right one. We hadn't been able to find out much about this bus beforehand: would it be 'cama' (fully reclining seats) or 'semi cama' (partly reclining)? How about air condition? With such a long trip ahead these questions become somewhat important. Finally, an older model bus with the awaited 'Santa Cruz' sign pulled into the station. A few people were already on board, and – the windows were open. That answered the last question. One look at the bus had already convinced us that the first two questions were a non-issue as well. This was the worst possible scenario regarding the comfort level. But there was no turning back now.

Bigger luggage was stowed in the belly of the bus, and almost on time we left the terminal. A quick look around assured us that there was no use hoping for a couple of empty seats so that Johann could stretch out his legs a little more. We'd just have to make the best of it.

After the inertion of the hot afternoon the city started to come to life again, and the warm air streaming through the open windows carried the fragrance of grass and blooming trees mingled with the smoke from asados of roadside barbecues. One more time we stopped to load supplies at a small tienda (shop) before the driver shifted his way up through the gears until he had reached travelling speed. As best we could we found a position that felt reasonably comfortable and settled in our seats. The assistant bus driver wasted no time to deliver our supper, a plastic-wrapped tray of spaghetti with two pieces of meat, a bun and a small package of cookies plus a bottle of pop. Not sure what to expect we had not wanted to leave our provisioning to chance and bought some buns, cheese, peanuts and, of course, a large bottle of water, but they would keep. This was an unexpected bonus.

Soon after the inside lights were switched off, and most of us slipped into a fitful sleep. A few times the bus stopped beside dimly lit shacks: police control. The bus driver walked over to the group of heavily armed members of the Policia Nacional with a sheaf of papers, then opened the door to the baggage compartment so that they could inspect its contents with a flashlight. Once a policeman came inside, too, walking slowly along the aisle. One by one he asked the travellers for their name and seat number, comparing the information with that in the passenger list he was holding in his hand. Other than that, there were no interruptions, no stops to disperse or pick up passengers in the small villages we passed through hardly slowing down, most certainly not anywhere near the posted speed limit of 40 km/h.

At 3:30 we were awakened by the call: Migración! Border control – here? We couldn't be anywhere near a border yet, could we? Rubbing the sleep from our eyes we looked for our passports and, stretching our cramped limbs, got off the bus as instructed. The assistant bus driver collected all of our ID and disappeared in the office which, we could see through a big window, contained two officials.

A 'baño' sign around the corner of the building soon had us all lined up to take advantage of the opportunity to use a bathroom: while the bus offered that much luxury, at least, I have so far been able to avoid using bathrooms on busses – the smell coming from the back of the bus whenever the door to the bathroom opens is enough to reserve this as a last resort. This was a well organized place: a woman was sitting beside the entrance to the bathroom, a stack of carefully folded sheets of toilet paper and a bowl filled with coins on a small table beside her. For each sheaf of paper she collected 1000 Guaranís (25 cents); those not in need of paper didn't have to pay. Contrary to many other bathrooms this one was quite clean, too.

Meanwhile the border officials had been checking each document carefully, and one by one we were called into the office to pick up our passports or identity cards. I looked around for Johann but could find him neither in the group of people waiting to get their passports back nor in the second group back at the bus already. Finally I noticed him engaged in conversation with a tall, fair-skinned man in a checkered shirt beside a pickup marked 'taxi' in the parking lot. When I walked over I realized to my amazement that they were speaking German: the man was from Neuland ('New Land'), one of the Mennonite communities. Johann had seen him standing there and asked him the standard question: “Do you speak English?”, which the man answered in the negative. “How about German?” (most often more a joke than a serious question). “Yes, I do”, he replied. So after the disappointment of not being able to visit the Mennonite colonies we were to find out at least a bit more, after all. While it is highly unlikely that we will return here – though one never knows – maybe the information will be useful to other travellers inquiring about this possibility at Thomas's hostel. Jakob Rempel (that was his name, a name that could just as easily belong to a Canadian Mennonite) told Johann that the settlements had grown from previously established settlements after the second world war by Mennonites from Ukraine who had had to flee from the Russians. These communities have German schools, and Mr. Rempel spoke excellent German. At home, he said, they speak Low German. There are two main communities, Filadelfia, the bigger one, with a population of about 5000 people, Neuland half as big. There is also a third settlement with Canadian connections, named La Plata. Here, at this border station, we were 75 km past Filadelfia already; Neuland being a bit closer.

Mr. Rempel had taken someone from Neuland to meet the bus – for them, too, the only route to get to Bolivia – and said it would have worked the same way had we wanted to visit Filadelfia: we would have had to make arrangements with a hotel (there are several) or the tourist information, and they would have arranged for a taxi to pick us up. It would have been nice to take this little side tour, but obviously we were lacking information how to go about the planning and organizing, and it would have needed longer preparation.

Finally we all had our passports back – including the Paraguayan exit stamp – and could be on our way again. So far the ride had been relatively smooth, but this changed almost immediately. In retrospect, the border post seems like the 'last frontier'. Now, the road became extremely bumpy, and the speed was not even half of what it had been. Nevertheless, most of us soon were asleep again after arranging our legs in some remotely comfortable position.

I woke up at first light. The first thing I noticed was the sound of many different bird voices announcing the impending sunrise. I sat up and gazed at an impenetrable wall of green. Small birds dashed back and forth, a group of bright green parrots with metallic blue heads rose screeching from a bush, large raptors had chosen higher treetops for vantage points. White butterflies covered small bushes like a mass of quivering blossoms, the real blossoms – tiny, delicate sprays of white – left behind when the butterflies rose like a cloud. Red, green and blue dragonflies kept pace with the bus, escorting us through this paradisiacal landscape. How glad I was now that this was not an airconditioned bus, that I could take all this in through the open window. The air was still soft, cooled off a bit during the night. Nobody else was awake yet. Breathing deeply, taking it all in, I treasured this special gift. Behind us the sky took on the deep golden glow promising the arrival of the sun – and there it was, transforming even the cloud of dust following us far into the distance into a thing of beauty.

But what a road it was! Now that I could see it became clear why we were driving so slowly, why we were shaken about so much. At some point there might have been some kind of firm surface, maybe even a form of pavement, because bits of it were still visible from time to time. Mostly, however, this was a hard-packed dirt road interspersed with powdery dust, with deep holes the bus driver did his best to avoid. He changed lanes – not that there were any – frequently, trying to negotiate the smoothest course, using part of the embankment when necessary. For several kilometres cows and calves had left their tracks in the deep, soft sand, at other times the tidy little marks of bird feet had created intricate patterns. Other than that, we seemed to be the only ones travelling along the Chaco road. How long could this go on? When would we finally reach the real border?

Around eight we stopped beside a few little houses to pick up some supplies: our 'breakfast', it turned out, consisting of a package of cookies and a juice container. Thankful for the opportunity we stretched our legs and walked around a little. Our fellow travellers from Paraguay filled their thermoses with ice water (supplied by the bus company, too) for their tererés, the drink favoured by Paraguayans, consisting of yerba mate and ice water, often with an addition of herbs like lemon grass and a mint-like plant. No place far and wide where to buy a coffee, of course, and no bathroom either.

The road veered off to the left and finally became smoother again. The bus picked up speed, but this didn't mean that the bus driver could relax his vigilance: deep holes still occurred from time to time, but at least they were visible from a distance, and the overall speed had much increased. Now, there was a bit more traffic, too: trucks, mostly, carrying fuel or farm supplies. The landscape changed noticeably: the lush green and seemingly undisturbed nature gave way to open pastures with herds of cattle. Once we passed a group of well-fed Hereford bulls. From time to time a gate marked the entrance to an estancia not even visible from the road. Strange looking trees, their bottle shaped trunks displaying a menacing looking armour of small protrusions, were part of the flora now. Bushes were thorny and covered in a profusion of small feathery leaves, not unlike the creosote bushes we had encountered in Arizona in the spring.

It was much later when we pulled off the road and parked in the shade of a high-roofed building that obviously awaited a promising future of something bigger: another inspection station. Armed, camouflage-clad men and one woman were awaiting us. We had to unload all of our bags, lining them up on the ground. Four tables made from cable rolls had been set up, each one manned with a customs official; a cage with a German Shepherd stood off to the side. One by one we were asked to bring our bags to one of the makeshift tables where they were taken apart and inspected. 

Oh, great! This was one time when our one-backpack-for-both-of-us method would not serve us well. Were they really going to empty the whole thing?? Johann heaved the big backpack onto one table while I lugged the two smaller packs to another one. Yes, they were fairly thorough, but we were no worse off than anyone else. In fact, one older woman who had brought two large suitcases plus a big cardboard box, nicely sealed with tape, had the box cut open and its contents inspected. The bus driver had a roll of tape to re-seal it; obviously this was nothing new.

Meanwhile one of the custom guys had brought out a mechanic's trolley and proceded to inspect the underside of the bus, taking a lot of time with it. This was no ordinary customs inspection, it finally dawned on us: this control served to turn up either weapons or drugs, or maybe both. Thankfully neither was found on this trip, and after maybe 45 minutes we were finally able to continue. This wasn't all yet, however. Twenty minutes or so later we pulled again off to the side, again had to unload all of our bags and carry them over to a small building where we were handed forms to fill out. This time we had to state our names, nationality, passport numbers, means of travel, point of departure and destination, and how much currency – foreign or otherwise – we were carrying. The only 'insignia' this customs official displayed was a peaked cap with the inscription 'Aduana'; otherwise he was clad in jeans and t-shirt. Nevertheless he, too, took his job seriously, made sure all the forms were filled out correctly and rooted through all the bags again, even cutting open the just-sealed box of the older woman. We tried to snatch a piece of the meagre shade the building provided, rubbing aching, swollen feet, trying to get the circulation going again. What about our passports, we wondered. 'Mas tarde' – later -, replied one of the women in our group – but no more controls now.

At a small collection of houses just as unlikely looking as the other inspection stations the bus pulled into a dusty side road. A small restaurant sold local food, and 'cambio, cambio' greeted us from a row of chairs: the first opportunity to exchange Guaranís for Bolivianos. The border official arrived on a red motorbike, sat down at a table under an open roof and stamped our passports. NOW, finally, we were officially in Bolivia!

From here it was smooth sailing. The road was free of potholes, and we made good progress. Once again we were served a meal on sealed plastic trays, this time consisting of rice, chicken and French fries plus another bottle of pop. It's not as if our stomachs had to suffer much hardship. Water, too, was available throughout from a cooler at the back of the bus that the assistant bus driver refilled from time to time from a big water bottle, adding a chunk of ice with his hands .... (and no, we didn't get sick on this trip!). Once we stopped to fuel up, finally able to use a bathroom again and splash some cold water on our faces.

Now once again we passed through the typical small towns with their many small shops and restaurants, people sitting in the shade, dogs, hogs, and chickens wandering around. For the most part, however, enormous cattle ranches stretched to the left and right, with huge herds of long-horned white Brahma cows. This didn't change until we arrived on the outskirts of Santa Cruz at about seven pm. We had set our clocks an hour back at the border, so when we finally pulled into the extremely busy bus terminal we had been on the road for 25 hours. What a relief to have finally made it!

It took some searching until we finally found a taxi driver who could take all six of us (the German girls and the French couple had the same hostel in mind as we did), but we managed that, too, and the hostel had room for all of us. I'm not sure when I had last craved a shower and a bed to stretch out on quite as much.

Would we have embarked on this trip if we had known what expected us? Now, with a day and a half distance, I think we would. Would we do it again? Maybe ask us in a few months or a year ...

 

Bus travel: expect the unexpected

El Jardin Hostal, Asunción, Paraguay

It is eleven in the morning. Hunting for a tank top in our backpack I come across a pair of socks. Given the fact that the door was almost too hot to the touch from the outside three hours ago already it is hard to imagine that I'll ever need them again. May I live with this illusion for a little while longer ...

Illusion, too, is that even the shade of this tree-lined little courtyard will provide coolness for much longer: the temperature, right now, is 30º C. El Jardin is at the perimeter of the city centre, which, according to Thomas, the Swedish owner of the hostel, is small enough to explore on foot, and that's what we plan to do later.

But what a journey it has been to get here! Little did we know that what was supposed to be an easy travelling day would turn out to be anything but when we shouldered our packs and walked down to the bus terminal in Puerto Iguazú yesterday morning. We held the tickets to Ciudad del Este, the Paraguayan city right across the Rio Uruguay, in our hands, an hour's bus trip at the most including the border crossing, according to our information.

Having misread the handwriting of the employee of the 'Rio Uruguay' bus company we were a bit early, and for the longest time it looked as if hardly anybody would join us on this trip across the border. Modern two-story busses came and went, loading and unloading people and luggage, and finally a relatively small, older bus arrived, displaying a 'Paraguay' sign in its front window. There were fewer seats than on the other busses we'd been on, but more space to put luggage, and suddenly there were all kinds of people, too, only a handful of them obvious foreign tourists, and only one other girl with a big backpack like us, indicating that she planned to cross the border for more than just a day's exploring or shopping.

It soon became clear that most of the passengers were going to Ciudad del Este to do just that; it seems to be a popular place to shop for bigger items like electronics, and Christmas is coming closer. We thought the bus was quite full when we left the terminal already, but the bus driver stopped at several bus stops along the way on his way out of town. By the time we left Puerto Iguazú behind us there was hardly a place left to put one's feet: seats and standing room alike were filled to capacity. We had had to leave our big pack at the front end of the bus and ended up at the very rear ourselves. No worries, though: we didn't need it until we got off, after all ...

A tall blond woman in her sixties had addressed us in excellent German at the bus stop: a third-generation Argentinian of German descent. A teacher at the Goethe-Institute (a German college) in Villa Gesell on the Argentinian coast she was in Iguazú for a holiday, had heard us speak German and enjoyed the opportunity to practice. Happy to be distracted from the crowded circumstances on the bus we didn't pay much attention to the landscape we drove through. It took only about twenty minutes until we reached the Argentinian border station where everyone had to get off the bus, the five or six foreigners to get their exit stamp, the locals only to show their identity card. Just like the day before, when a bus took us to the Brazilian side of the falls, these formalities went very smoothly, and in no time at all we were back on the bus. We were much too late to find a seat close to the front (or anywhere else, for that matter), but we made sure to get a standing place close to the back door to be able to exit quickly at the Paraguayan border station.

Not long, and we crossed the Rio Uruguay. 'Now we're in Paraguay', Johann said. My impression that the view from the bridge to the left was the same as the day before when we crossed into Brazil couldn't be right, of course. Not able to get a good view out of the window from our squeezed-in position we wondered just a little how quickly the bus passed some buildings that could have been a border station, but didn't think much of it, just wondered a little why it took so long to get to the official entry to Paraguay. Road construction made for a bumpy ride, and to the left and right shopping centres and commercial buildings lined the road, some of them not finished yet. Road signs seemed a bit strange to me: this didn't look like Spanish, was only reminiscent of it. Maybe this was what Guaraní looked like, the official Paraguayan language? Still, letter combinations like '...eixe' and 'ão' made me think of the signs we had seen the day before – but we weren't in Brazil, were we? By now, the French couple close to us was wondering aloud about this strange occurrence, too. And then we crossed the river – or a different one? - a second time. There was a lot of traffic here, a long line of trucks waiting in the lane beside us, masses of people crossing the bridge on foot.

Suddenly a call from the front: 'Pasaporte? Pasaporte?' This, then, had to be the real border to Paraguay, and we had indeed travelled through Brazil for the past twenty or thirty minutes. Trying frantically to get to the front of the bus from where the call had issued we made very slow progress. The local passengers not only didn't need to have their passports stamped, but also were not in the least concerned about us. By the time we got close to the front the bus was on the move again. The French couple and the girl with the big backpack, just like us, were left without an entry stamp; only the Japanese man had been close enough to the front to get his.

The girl, a young traveller from Holland, as it turned out, spoke Spanish quite well, and from her conversation with a Paraguayan woman I gathered that while we could travel all we wanted in Paraguay we would face a heavy fine when we tried to leave again without the stamp. She explained to us that she had even asked the bus driver if we needed to stop and get our stamp when she boarded the bus, and he had just waved off her concerns. Hot and not at all happy with the situation we decided we better take a taxi back to the border station from the terminal before going on to Asunción.

At the terminal we found that we could take the same bus back to the border station, about teón or fifteen minutes away, so that we could save at least the taxi fare for one way. The three of us – the French had got off the bus a few stations before the terminal already – boarded the bus again, now almost empty, and made sure the driver knew that we wanted to get off to get our stamps. This time we encountered no problems, were quickly processed at the border and found a taxi to take us back to the terminal. Altogether this little excursion took no longer than maybe half an hour extra – and 100 pesos ($10 Can) in taxi fare, of course. How strange that a country is not interested to check the people crossing its borders.

As soon as we entered the terminal building again and looked around for a bus that would take us to Asunción shouts of 'Asunción, Asunción' greeted us from different booths. The nearest one, of the NSA bus company, had a bus leaving in 'five minutes'. Sure. Eager to be on our way again we paid the $15US/person (no need for Paraguayan Guaranís yet) and soon stepped on a bus most definitely a class or two below the long-distance busses we had travelled on in the last while. The bus driver walked along the isle and asked me to open the window: 'for air', he smiled. Well, here was our air condition, then. How long would it take to get to Asunción, Lisa, the Dutch girl, inquired of the driver. Oh, we'd arrive 'a la seize, mas o menos' – around six, approximately. Five hours, then. The end was in sight.

The five minutes turned out to be more like twenty before the driver had decided that he now had enough passengers. This time Lisa and us were truly the only foreigners. With the open windows the temperature was very pleasant in spite of the heat outside, and we soon enjoyed the beautiful landscape we passed through. We had brought bread, cheese, water and peanuts – our standard travel fare – but would not have had to go hungry and thirsty if we hadn't. Unlike in the fancier busses we were finally back to South American bus travel we have come to not only appreciate but love. Women with huge cloth-covered baskets came on board to sell warm 'chipas', a local cheese-flavoured kind of roll made with cassava or corn flour; also men carrying coolers of 'agua' and 'gaséosas' (pop) or sweets.

Green and lush, Paraguay proved to be a balm for the eyes. Fields with white, long horned Brahma cattle and big herds of beautiful horses passed by, interspersed with long stretched out villages with shady groves of blooming trees where people sat in the shade and children were playing. Finally, finally there was something we had most sorely missed in Argentina with its meat based diet: fruit stands, with watermelons and honey melons at first, later with bananas, citrus fruits, tomatoes and much, much more. How good it would be to just be able to stop at a stand for some great quality fruit instead of turning away in disgust from the poor display of Argentinian fruit in the supermarkets.

Often, the bus didn't make quick progress, stuck behind a line of traffic which, however, the driver had no qualms passing quite aggressively, but whenever there was an empty stretch of road we made up for the delay. We stopped at bus stops in smaller towns, a couple of times at a bus terminal in a bigger town along the way, and, the window open beside me, I tried to take a few pictures. 

 

We had just passed this '24-hour tire shop' with the tethered cow in the background at about 5:45 when the bus stopped. This was not a bus stop, however, and after ten minutes we still had no idea what was going on. The engine rumbled quietly, the driver and co-driver got off, after a while followed by a few of the other passengers who stood around

 looking just as clueless as we were. It took a whole hour

until we were finally on the move again, and not much after the sun started to set. Soon it was too dark to see, and, tired of spending all these long hours on the bus, we were anxious to arrive at our destination and finally stretch our limbs again.

By the time we entered the huge bus terminal in Asunción it was nine o'clock – the trip had taken three hours more than anticipated, only one of those hours with explainable reason. It didn't matter: we were where we wanted to be, and our hostel was only a twenty minute taxi ride away. What relief to finally be able to call it a day!

Wall of the courtyard with Jasmine spilling down

Fragrant Jasmine flowers

It is now 3:30 in the afternoon, time to go for a walk and see what this city has to offer. According to Thomas, it is a safe and pleasant place to be, and I look forward to finding out more.

Iguazú Falls, day one: Argentinian side

It is the morning of our second day here in Puerto Iguazú. Johann just walked over to the bus terminal to get the tickets for today's trip, the Brazilian side of the Iguazú falls, a 'must', supposedly, to get a complete impression of these mighty waterfalls. The bus leaves in an hour and a half, so I have some time to write for a while.

Yesterday, we boarded an early bus to visit the Argentinean side, a wise decision, as it turned out. Like at any major tourist attraction bus loads of people descend on the place every day, and it was nice to have a quiet start to get a feel for the place.

But how to describe such magnificence? It seems impossible in the face of wall after wall of water stretching far into the distance, the force of it making the ground tremble under my feet when I stand on one of the many bridges allowing so close an encounter that it takes but a minute to be drenched. Eternal mist from the spray rises from the bottom of the falls, enhancing the feeling that this is the gate into a mythical world – or the wall separating me from it.

Gazing at this one can almost forget the presence of so many other people vying for the best spot to take a photo or have their photo taken, but whenever we turn from a viewing platform to enter a walkway to another one the shoving begins again. The few restaurants and rest areas spaced strategically along the way draw the biggest crowds. Coatis, small, omnivorous animals with ringed tails, related to the raccoon, but diurnal,not nocturnal, have long figured out the best place to scavenge food, and are, of course, popular subjects for photographers. Signs warn of their aggressive behaviour, however: too familiar by now with humans they don't hesitate to use sharp teeth and claws to get what they want, and ugly injuries can result. We encounter a huge family group on one of the quieter paths through the forest: two adults and about ten cute youngsters root around in the leaf litter, the babies playing and rolling around while the parents look for food more seriously. It seems impossible that all these babies belong to one family, and now I just read that females and their offspring live together in family groups, during mating season sometimes joined by a male for a while. 

 It is now Thursday, December 4, and we'll be packing up for a new leg of the journey soon. We'll take a bus to Ciudad del Este, right across the border in Paraguay, and will find another bus to Asunçion, the capital, where we'll stay for the next couple of nights.

There is still a bit of time, however, so I will finish at least the report about the first day in Iguazú.

After walking the different trails – paved and well maintained – with the many bridges allowing different views of the many parts of the falls on the Argentinian side, we spent part of the afternoon walking a much less crowded path through the forest, with a small waterfall at its end. Here, I could enjoy the other aspect of this area: the verdant lushness of the rainforest. So many shades of green, so many different shapes and textures of leaves, so many degrees of light and shade!

 Far from the roar of the falls this is a quiet world where the incessant shrill of insect voices surpasses all other noise. Its beauty is not as immediately obvious, but there is a lot to see here, too.

How to get from Montevideo to San Ignacio

San Ignacio, Argentina

7:30 in the morning

This time the rumble that woke me up from the latest hour and a half of sleep was not thunder but the sound of a car engine. Maybe it is finally over ...

All through the day yesterday it kept building up to this. Clouds appeared all along the horizon and grew as the day progressed, huge walls with ever more threatening thunderheads billowing. Yet the sun was still shining throughout the afternoon, and we had time enough to walk the length and breadth of the extensive grounds of the San Ignacio Miní Jesuit monastery. This UNESCO world heritage site is surrounded by a sleepy little town of the same name, and until we stood in front of its gates we would have found it hard to believe to find anything than the usual small shops and restaurants here. Dirt roads branched off the few paved streets, and our feet stirred up small clouds of dust of a deep, dark red colour when we crossed them on our way to the area of town where we suspected the few lodgings to be.

It had been a long trip to get here. Early Saturday afternoon we boarded a bus to Salto, about a six hour bus ride north and a bit west of Montevideo on the Uruguay river. We had booked this, the first ticket on the long journey to Puerto Iguazu, in advance, but after that it wasn't quite clear what the best way to proceed would be, and we couldn't have booked with the same company all the way through because of the border crossing to Argentina. Yes, it was time for another little adventure after the sheltered few days with friends.

We arrived in Salto after seven pm, still not quite sure if we needed to spend the night here (not our favoured choice) or if we would find a bus to take us across to Concordia, the Argentinean city on the other side of the Rio Uruguay. A bit sticky from the bus ride – this time the air condition system was underfunctioning, contrary to the trip to Punta del Diablo – and almost overwhelmed how hot it was outside when we stepped out into the open we were glad to enter the air conditioned bus terminal. Here, like so many times before in bus terminals all over South America, we walked along the long row of bus company booths looking for one going to Concordia. The 'Flechabus' office we found after a short search opened at 8 pm, still more than half an hour away, but the schedule posted looked as if we might be lucky – if they weren't booked out. When the office opened we were pleasantly surprised that the company representative even spoke English. Yes, she said, there was a bus that very evening, leaving at 9:30, arriving around the same time in Concordia: we'd be back to Argentinean time, gaining an hour. A short bus ride indeed, especially since it also included a border crossing.

At the appointed time we found that there would have been no need whatsoever to worry about space: we were six, including the bus driver, and no tourists except for us. The road leading away from Salto was narrow and bumpy, and traffic was sparse. After maybe fifteen kilometres we turned left and soon entered the bridge crossing the mighty Rio Uruguay. At the end of the bridge was the border station. The bus stopped, we all got out, and the bus driver led us into the brightly lit building. He walked past a large group of people from another, obviously much fuller bus waiting in line to a couple of border agents at the end of the long desk. In no time at all we had our stamps, guaranteeing us a 90-day stay in Argentina as visitors. After a perfunctory inspection of our luggage at customs, consisting of a brief glance into the baggage compartment by a customs officer holding a flashlight, we were free to continue to Concordia.

Now came the real test: would we find a bus to take us to San Ignacio, a stop on the way to Puerto Iguazu, that same night? If not, we would have to find a place to stay in Concordia, a sizeable city from what we could see driving through, but not a very inviting prospect at this time of night. Again the walk along rows of company booths, this time with several prospects, according to the signs. Alas, one after the other – all of them in perfect Spanish – regretted to have no space until at least the evening of the following day. Now what? The English speaking bus representative in Salto had suggested we'd visit the tourist information booth in Concordia if we needed help, and while the friendly man who slid back his window now did not speak a word of English either he had an alternative for us: why not go to Posadas instead? A bus left at 1:30 the same night for this city on the Paraná river, and we could connect to San Ignacio and ultimately Puerto Iguazu from there. He directed us to a company we had visited before, and this time it didn't take long until we held the tickets in our hands. Why the bus company employee hadn't thought of suggesting this alternative herself is a bit hard to understand. One more time the tourist information guy was able to help us, this time in our quest to exchange money, which happened at a store selling sweets and snacks. The exchange course, this time, was 11.5:1, but then, the store lacked the competition present in 'Florida'.

We had to kill three hours until our departure, so we went in search of a place to eat and have a beer, not a difficult undertaking. It was very hot: 31 C at eleven o'clock at night! No wonder people avoid being out during the afternoon. In Argentina and Uruguay it is completely normal to have the evening meal at ten, eleven or even midnight, and even small children and children who have to go to school the next day are up and about. Concordia was no exception, and until our departure there was no sign of traffic slowing down or the crowd thinning.

We slept much of the rest of the night on the way to Posadas. I have trouble keeping my eyes open during bus rides even in the daytime here. Maybe the landscape and the driving here are less exciting than in Ecuador, Colombia, Bolivia and Peru. Daylight showed a slightly rolling landscape stretching far into the distance to both sides, lots of cattle, here and there some sorghum fields in the vicinity of infrequent feedlots. Small bushes were planted in often irregular rows, grass high between them: yerba mate, the ubiquitous drink of Argentina and Uruguay. Other than that, we passed plantations of pine trees, much less eucalyptus than further south, and native brush. There is enough moisture here to keep things growing, but the soil doesn't seem to be very fertile.

It was no problem to find a connection to San Ignacio in Posadas, and within the hour we were on our way. We arrived at our destination after about 24 hours and 1100km

of travel. Contrary to the travel guide the town (now?) has a small bus terminal, and we had only a few blocks to walk until we found a place to stay, right across from the San Ignacio ruins. An older man, shirtless because of the heat, welcomed us at the door. I could only understand a word here and there in the flood of Spanish, but he did indeed have a room for us, a small, simple cabin, but clean and equipped with air conditioning – very important in this heat. He led us through the hallways of his house to get to the cabin, stopped at a freezer, pulled out an opened beer bottle and added some to a glass standing on a small table beside it. 'Alemanes toman – Germans drink', he stated, handing the glass first to Johann, then to me. It felt a bit like sharing a pipe in a native American ceremony, and somehow it wouldn't have felt right to decline the room after this.

By now it is almost 9:30, and we should think of checking out and getting to the bus station somehow. I sure hope we can find a taxi, because it is still raining, and right now it's raining hard again. We just made it back to the hotel after going out for a meal, around 8:30 last night, before it started to rain hard and harder. At times it felt as if somebody was pouring water from huge buckets – never in our lives have we experienced rain like that, and it was almost scary. Time and again the clap of thunder, lightning lighting up the sky all around. A few times it seemed to have slowed down, maybe even to have quit, but then the sluices of heaven opened again, and water poured down with renewed force. It will be interesting to see what the dirt roads we crossed yesterday will look like today. The poor people living there, or in the country. This must be the kind of rain that produces floods and land slides.

The 'wifi' promised brazenly on the sign in front of the hotel only works outside: if I understood our landlord correctly it is the network of the monastery ... This means we don't have an internet connection at the moment, since I don't plan to subject either myself or the laptop to a downpour. Posting this likely will have to wait until we are in Puerto Iguazu, about four hours by bus from here, where we hopefully will not have too much trouble finding a hostel or hotel.

By now it is 8 pm. We arrived in Puerto Iguazu at about 3:30 this afternoon, are checked into a hotel, went for a walk 'downtown' (not a big undertaking), had a beer to cool down a bit - and now it's raining again. The internet here is working just fine, and inside the room, too, so I will post this and possibly report a bit more later.