The extent to which geographical proximity is to be creatively exploited isn’t always clear. For example, how do you adequately portray the stench of the Calcutta sewer system once you’ve returned to making artisanal soaps in the south of France? Is memory to be trusted – or must we lean ever more desperately on intent and imagination to recall the events and impressions of past? I am sitting at the desk of an aspiring investment banker (or so I imagine him to be based a sampling of the literature on display: Management for Dummies; The Singularity is Near: Why Humans Transcend Biology; The Complete Memoires of Casanova – I think you get the point) and trying to evoke an image of Paraguay, that island-surrounded-by-land that seems ever-so-further-away from Paris than it did in Buenos Aires, much less several weeks ago in Missouri. It is easy to exaggerate the poverty of a given place when remembered through the suds of a marble-studded bathtub. All too often, we drift toward one extreme or another in a desperate attempt to avoid the ocean of Convention and its relentless waves of boredom that beat upon the brim of our Expectations and threaten our isthmus of momentary interest in the world (this sentence being but one case in point). However, when all is said and done, extremes rarely display the same hue our imaginations grant them – and the patterns of poverty and wealth alike eventually seem to be much more integral to our own historicity than we’d previously imagined. Is the goal of meritocracy and opportunity merely the ability to imagine oneself wealthy one day and homeless the next? I, for one, am not convinced it isn’t. With that in mind, I will attempt to describe the events of my last days in Paraguay from the third floor of a six-story mansion in the heart of Paris’ Latin Quarter.
We awoke midday to another glorious exhibition from the Paraguayan sun-god’s armoire – and with mate, sandwiches and an extensive array of bad music on hand, set off for Ciudad del Este several hours later than originally intended. A shame, because the little we saw of the countryside before sunset was truly astounding: from a narrow, two-land highway hugging ambling hillsides of endless summer nights, our miniscule chileno-made SUV darted through the fertile fields of the central southern cone amongst an abundance of Mercedes, mini-motos and donkeys alike. Small red-clay roads protruded from our paved passageway into a rambling horizon of straw huts, dotted palm trees and slowly burning fires. Whether they were smoldering trash or overgrown grass, we couldn’t tell. In any case, it smelled wonderful - the scent of rustic freedom married to pre-modern estival confine. It soon grew dark and all we could make out were sporadic headlights in the distance and hillside fires to our left and right. Though nearly 40% of registered Paraguayan voters are said to be members of the long-dominant Colorado Party and its powerful bureaucratic apparatus, the state doesn’t strike one as particularly present outside of the capital (Nor, at times, within it. The presidential palace is protected by what look to be 2-3 armed men sipping terere and texting their mistresses; Nico and I could gather a group of 10-15 good men and carry out the coup in a matter of minutes.) Nonetheless, there are a fearful amount of military roadblocks along the few cross-country fairways – and we were bound to be stopped before too long.
Analia, our Paraguayan host, was terrified of driving anywhere outside of the capital or the area around her lake house, so Marcos took the wheel that evening. He’d left his argie driver’s license back home so we rang the police to figure out potential fines: 150,000 guaranis, or about $12/person once divided by three - a palatable amount, in any case. Thus when the time came to pull over, we were less than alarmed. Oddly, however, the young gentlemen wanted our identification papers rather than drivers licenses, documents we’d taken great caution to leave in the capital rather than risk theft thereof in the notorious Ciudad del Este. Yet when Marcos failed to charm the subordinate soldier with his doctors’ glasses, graying mane and all-around-Argentine-allure, we were called into the roadside station to explain ourselves. It was a small wooden cabin about 10 feet from the road, accompanied by neither door nor glass window. Inside, a single, pornographic picture calendar adorned the wall - next to which sat the commanding officer, a pink and portly specimen, at a lone, wooden desk. Our host reclined, feigning familiarity with the plastic and metal object on his desk (an old Dell) – and intently grilling us with a mixture of mischief and disdain.
If I’ve learned anything passing through Canada and Paraguay in the past several months, it’s that traveling with a multinational crew by land never pays, no matter how well you speak the language. “How do you know each other?” goes the usual refrain. “We studied together in France many years ago,” – or – “We’re in the same history program in New York,” two recent responses. Either might pass for a respectable response in Geneva, though was rather suspect in the Paraguayan outback. Unimpressed, our lardly law-enforcer dispatched a colleague to further investigate our papers (in this case a Missouri driver’s license and an Argentine national ID card). “You realize you’re technically illegal at the moment,” he kindly reminded us. “We cannot let you proceed without passports.” “But since we’re staying within national boundaries, your highness, we thought that secondary identification would suffice.” “You can go back to Asuncion, get your papers and then come back. How does that sound?” “We would love to, your honor, though that puts us back three hours’ journey. Can we have someone fax you photo-copies of our passports from Asuncion?” “Well, yes, I suppose,” our tubby captain seemed to capitulate. “Assuming, of course, you have a fax machine?” “No, we don’t.” “How would you suppose we go about faxing you then, good sir?” “I haven’t the slightest idea. I guess the young American and Argentine will get to spend the night in jail with us,” he grumbled with a grin. In the end, we profusely apologized and they simply let us on our way without paying a dime. A game of lethargic chicken, if you will. Nonetheless, the subordinate officers were all quite friendly - even slightly apologetic for the inconvenience - whereas their corpulent captain seemed to regret the laziness with which he’d let us go.
We reached our destination several hours later and in time for a late dinner. Despite the swathes of humanity that throng the array of indoor and outdoor markets in the city’s center by day, the commercial capital of the tri-border region was eerily deserted by night. True, there were a spattering of cheap to mid range hotels within a four-block radius and several uninspiring restaurants, though virtually not a pedestrian in site, despite the presence of inconspicuous casinos that sat on virtually every corner. Who frequented such establishments we would never know. The security guards with pump-action shotguns in each entrance didn’t prove as appealing as that class in marketing had hitherto made them appear. That being said, we parked and began to consult our freebee guide, beginning by checking if they had a spare room at Mi Abuelita (‘My Grandmother’s). A lad of 14-15 years lazily loomed at the entrance in shorts, tee shirt and flip-flops - the barrel of pump-action shotgun in one hand with a thermos of tea in the other. 30% of employment in eastern Paraguayan nightlife seemed to be in security – and virtually everyone was conspicuously armed. There had been a spattering of kidnappings and landlord-murders in the north of the country in recent months, though I couldn’t quite crack the code in Ciudad del Este (nor did the locals want to divulge further information). Just get used to everyone – virtually everyone - being armed wherever you go: from the motel to the pizza parlor, the gas station to the roadside restaurant. A true gangster’s paradise: one where everyone’s locked and loaded without having the faintest intention of popping off.
(off for a refreshment in the gardens, to be continued)
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