Picking up loose threads: Iguazú Falls, Brazilian side

Sol Andino Hostel, La Paz

And here we are back in the highlands again after heat and high humidity. Coming to La Paz almost felt like coming home for me although we only spent a couple of days here last year. It is the whole atmosphere of the highlands where we have done most of our travelling in the last few years. This is the South America I love.

It is not without challenges to come from 400m above sea level to 3800m within one hour, of course. The 'exploding' lotion bottle this morning is a very visual reminder that the air pressure is low: no wonder our bodies need to adjust. We have to walk slowly, especially up the steep hills, and off and on I was plagued by headaches yesterday. Still – it's wonderful to be here!

We are not in any hurry to move on or even do and see a lot for a couple of days – every walk to buy a bottle of water provides enough stimulation – so I'm going to try and pick up a few loose ends from earlier parts of the trip.

It is very hard to believe, and I had to go back to the corresponding blog entry to make sure, but it was indeed only a week ago today that we visited the Brazilian side of the Iguazú Falls. How much distance, how many impressions lie between then and now, there and here! It is not difficult to find my way back there, however, because it is truly an awesome experience. The travel guide did not exaggerate when it said that a visit to the falls would not be complete without looking at them from both sides.

Again we boarded a bus at the terminal in Puerto Iguazú. It took about an hour to get to our destination, including the border crossing. Our bus driver who, it turned out, spoke German, collected everybody's passports and returned after a short while with the stamps – no hassle at all. Conditions were much less crowded than on the Argentinian side when we entered the generously laid out parking area in front of the park entrance. It will look different in high season, of course, but now the parking lot looked almost deserted, and we didn't have to stand in line to get our admission tickets. The park administration buildings are spacious and look almost new, and everything is well organized to process large groups of people – another indication that it is not always as quiet as now.

From the administation building double-decker shuttles, much like the sightseeing busses used for city tours, leave every fifteen minutes or so to take visitors to three different points within the park. The first two provide access to 'adventure tours' run by a private company, the last is the starting point to visit the falls.

We opt for the third stop, of course: first and foremost we are here to see the falls; anything else has time until later. The last bus to leave for Puerto Iguazú will be at the parking lot at five. Just as on the Argentinian side paved walkways make for comfortable walking. Here, there is only one choice, and together with a smattering of other tourists we are on our way down the path through the forest. Only a few metres along movement in the leaf litter beside the path catches our eye: a giant lizard quickly makes its way down the slope, not pausing long enough for a photo. Butterflies, too, are everywhere, many more than we saw the day before. They come in all shapes and sizes, displaying beautiful colours. I see a few among them that I have watched at the butterfly house in the Devonian Botanic Garden.

Turning the first corner we come out into the open – and gaze at an amazing sight. Waterfalls, one beside the other, as far as the eye can see. The very scenery we experienced up close yesterday we can now take in in one sweeping glance. 

  

The path descends slowly, and, just like at the rim walk along the Grand Canyon, every few metres the scenery changes, the view becomes more spectacular. The longer we walk, the further we descend the closer we get to all that roiling water again. 

The picture above is taken right across from where we stood the day before at the edge of the river, where the boats leave for a thrill ride almost right into the water roaring down the 'Garganta del Diablo', Devil's Throat. Once we were that close we decided we didn't need the extra thrill of the boat ride - how much more would this tourist adventure be able to give us anyway? Now, getting ever closer to the very spot from a different angle, able to watch the manoeuvering of the boats, we can see that it would have been even more exciting than we could have anticipated. Still, we are quite satisfied that we decided against it; it would, after all, been a 'man-made' thrill, and nothing that could have improved on the one Mother Nature held in store for us.  

The further we descend, the closer we get to 'Devil's Throat'. Even at the beginning of the walk we felt the mist from the falls from time to time, although they were far away then. Now, the path is wet, and the spray is becoming more steady. The roar of the water, now close by, increases by the minute.

A sign warns to put on rain gear and protect cameras etc: we are about to get wet. People coming uphill take off dripping wet raincoats. Turning another corner we can now see the whole amazing spectacle expecting us if we descend further: a footbridge with several viewing platforms will put us face to face with the Garganta del Diablo. We put on our rain jackets, I stick the camera in a ziplock bag I brought along, and bravely we enter the inferno. 

 

Within seconds we are totally drenched. Conversation has become almost impossible: the voice of the water overpowers everything else, and water is all around us, from the wall tumbling from above to our left to the masses dropping away at our feet. I stand in awe, close my eyes and feel almost lifted by the pure force of it, feel, for a moment, as if I am part of it. For a moment, there is only this – no people screaming to be heard above the voice of the falls, taking photographs, vying for the best spot – just the roiling water and me.

 

We walk uphill for a bit, out of reach of the spume, and sit down to watch a bit more from some distance away. We are both still in awe. How glad we are that we came here, too. We wouldn't have been able to imagine this. Once we've had our fill we walk back up to the shuttle station. We still have about two and a half hours left before the bus leaves for Puerto Iguazú. It would be nice to go for a little hike along one of the paths we passed by earlier.

What disappointment, however: when we inquire about the right trail to take we find out that these trails 'belong' to the adventure tour operators. They are used for their jeeps, 'eco-friendly' electric cars, and of course we could book either one of them and then hike or bike part of the way – that's the tour they offer. Couldn't we just hike for a while along the path, we ask. Only if we pay what we'd pay for the 'full experience'. This is ridiculous! We leave a comment in their suggestion box, but I doubt this will show any result. Why would they give up on a source of income from Iguazú-hungry tourists?

What to do with our time, then? We decide we might as well take the next shuttle back to the falls and enjoy them for a little bit longer.
 In the morning the clouds only parted from time to time, but now a brilliant blue sky spans over the foamy white rising from the falls. We find a bench under a big tree and unpack our lunch, as so often consisting of bread, cheese and water and enjoy the perfect view and relative quiet. We look up when we hear something stir above us and can hardly believe our luck: a toucan, its large, black-tipped orange beak almost translucent in the sun, light blue feet clutching a branch right over our heads. It isn't very shy, clambers about from branch to branch slowly, finally moves to the front of the tree. Wait – what is that twittering I hear now? It sounds exactly like – yes! The toucan climbs into a hollow left by a sawed-off branch, and the twittering stops almost immediately: there's a nest of little toucans right close to us. There is no question of seeing them, of course, but what a wonderful thought!

Once again we walk partway down the path, and it is as if we were meant to be rewarded for coming back. The sun has warmed the slope along which the path leads, and lizards and butterflies seem to enjoy this. A small lizard watches curiously from the shade of a railing post before darting away, and two more of the big lizards we saw in the morning slither through the undergrowth. They are huge, more than three, maybe four feet in length, and after many attempts to determine what they are the conclusion seems to be that these must be tegus. They stay off the path, and I have no real desire to see them any closer than they are. 

One more surprise lies in store for us: a small, armoured brown-grey animal with round, pink-brown, almost opaque ears is busily digging through the leaves on a slope right beside us: a three-banded armadillo, smaller than the nine-banded armadillo that can be found in the southern part of North America. It doesn't pay any attention to us, so engrossed is it in its search for food.

 

Satisfied and happy with this day we board the shuttle. We really could not have asked for anything more. 

Looking back, the Iguazú (or Iguaçu, as they are called in Brazil) Falls were the highlight of this year's South American travels, like Machu Picchu last year. We have a few days left, however, and tomorrow should be another interesting day: we will visit Tiwanaku, a pre-Columbian site about an hour and a half from La Paz.

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.