29 January – 4 February 2012
Brian: I’m convinced riding through Paraguay is by far the quickest way to get from the Iguazu Falls to San Pedro de Atacama in Chile, which is on our ‘not to be missed’ list.
Crossing the bridge that separates Brazil and Paraguay we take the lane set aside for motorcycles. It’s a tight squeeze. The locals ride much smaller bikes and it’s no mean feat to get through without scraping the panniers on the concrete dividers.
We’ve been told to make sure we get our paperwork checked and passports stamped because most people who cross at this border are locals heading into Paraguay for the cheap shopping. The paperwork doesn’t pose any problems. No queues, no forms to complete — just a couple of stamps.
We cross into Cuidad del Este, which is a shopping hub, a town of markets, shops and moneychangers. Touts walk right in front of us trying to coax us into their car parks and their shops. It’s madness, very reminiscent of India.
A couple of kilometres down the road and it all changes. We’re in the countryside — green and peaceful. Even the drivers seem good. One bus does overtake us so close I could lift my elbow and touch the side, but most leave plenty of space. It’s a pleasure to ride here.
There are plenty of roadblocks and checkpoints but the officials just wave us through. They seem to be more interested in buses and trucks than us, except for one, who signals us to stop and walks around the bike checking it all out. He asks to see our passports and our yellow fever certificates. It’s a first. I get the feeling he just wants to check out the bike more than anything else. All’s good — our paperwork’s in order.
Shirley: It’s lunchtime and I’m hungry. The roadside eateries on the highway look pretty good so we pull up alongside a little shed with an awning and a couple of chairs and tables shaded by a massive tree.
The owner is very pleased to have us stop at his establishment, and keeps asking if I need to use the baño — bathroom. I’m right, thanks.
We try a local favourite — a corn meal patty stuffed with meat. It’s very tasty. Two patties with two cans of soft drink cost the equivalent of $2. These roadside stalls are definitely value for money.
When we leave, the man offers the use of his facilities again. I can’t imagine where the toilet would be and never find out.
It’s getting hotter and the closer we get to Asuncion the heavier and crazier the traffic gets. The GPS decides we need to experience some of the real Paraguay and, for some reason, takes us off the highway and through a small town with no footpaths, just ramshackle stalls and plenty of buses. It’s market day and it’s crazy.
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We survive another ride in manic traffic where every driver seems to have his heart set on killing us. In the city we find the hotel easy enough, but the doors are locked and it looks very empty. This can’t be right. A man comes out of a shop next door and walks with me to the corner to point out the right hotel. Brian rides slowly behind us.
The hotel doors are locked here too but I’m buzzed inside. Brian parks on the footpath outside the entrance. I’m always concerned about parking for the bike and chose this hotel because of its parking.
The parking, it seems, is not here at the hotel, but around the corner under the supermarket. Brian takes this news much better than me. I’m not happy.
Brian: Our room is enormous and very luxurious. After unloading the bike, and a cold shower, Shirl has calmed down so we walk to the supermarket to check out the parking for the bike.
The security guard tells us someone’s there 24 hours a day and we can park the bike in front of his little office, where he can see it. This is going to be fine.
We need to change some Uruguayan pesos for the local guaraní. We couldn’t change them in Brazil and we have to try a couple of changers here before we find the Casa de Cambio (the House of Change), which will do the exchange for us. The walk takes us into the heart of the historic area of Asuncion. It’s quite charming, shabby but charming.
We could change US dollars right on the street. The moneychangers are everywhere, operating under the watchful eye of the police. It’s either legal or ignored. They openly tout for business and have bags of money around their waists. I guess they won’t get robbed if they have the police nearby.
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When we shift the bike to the car park all fears that it’ll go missing are erased. When we park, right outside the security box, a man drives a forklift over carrying a pallet of flour bags. He deposits the pallet behind the bike. It isn’t going anywhere.
The security guard gives us a wave.
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Dinner is fine, the wine good, but the menu a little confusing. The main course arrives without a problem, but the ice-cream we think we ordered for dessert turns out to be preserved fruit in a sickly sweet sauce with cheese.
Oh well, it’s another of Shirl’s taco/pizza moments.
Shirley: While it’s a little shabby, the centre of Asuncion is a delight. Some of the buildings are crumbling into ruin, some have been beautifully restored.
At the Plaza de los Heroes we visit the tombs of some of Paraguay’s war heroes. The congress buildings, old and new, are indicative of the country’s desire to maintain a democratic government. The impressive Palacio de Gobierno was home to the dictator, Francia in the early 19th century. He was paranoid, to say the least; he had food and drink tasters, slept in a different bed every night, ruled that no one was allowed to get closer than six paces from him. Anyone who lingered too long outside the gates of this beautiful palace was shot. Today we’re not allowed to wander down the side street but there’s no problem with us taking photos of this very impressive building.
It’s impossible to feel threatened here in Asuncion. There’s literally a policeman on every corner.
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As night falls we watch the darkest clouds converge on the city. I don’t think I’ve ever seen clouds as dark. It buckets down. If it’s like this in the morning we’ll need to rethink our plans to leave Paraguay.
Brian: The storm seems to have rained itself out overnight. It’s still overcast, hot and steamy which isn’t going to make for a good ride today. And it’ll be a long one with yet another border crossing.
When I get to the car park a man magically appears with a forklift and shifts the pallet of flour so I can get the bike out. You can’t beat this kind of secure parking area.
At the petrol station I get the usual questions about the bike: how much does it cost? How fast does it go? How much gas does it use? How big is the tank? People are fascinated by the bike and our journey, even the maids and the receptionist come out with their phone cameras to get a photo of themselves with the bike before we head out of town.
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The road from Asuncion to the Argentinean border is a maze of one-way streets. Thank goodness for the GPS. When the road turns to dirt we find chaos reminiscent of an Asian border crossing and presume we’re actually at the border. There are long lines of trucks and cars and hawkers selling everything from food to wiper blades. We can’t find the immigration office because we’re not at the border yet, there’s still a half a kilometre to go.
The actual border is more organised chaos and doesn’t pose any problems until it comes to getting the bike back into Argentina. At some Argentinean borders they’ve accepted our carnet. Some haven’t. Here no one seems to know what to do. The man behind the Aduana (Customs) counter tells us to see the woman outside. She isn’t sure what to do either so we all go back inside where there’s a lengthy discussion while everyone looks at the Carnet de Passage and our passports. Finally we get a stamp and we’re back in Argentina. The sound of stamps being banged onto inkpads and then onto passports is becoming a very comforting one.
Shirley: We know we won’t get to Salta today but we want to get as far as we can. The heat’s unbearable so it’s a welcome respite when the rains come.
We push on, passing through towns that don’t seem to have any hotels and some that do. Some look quite palatial and I’m tempted to recommend stopping for the night, but I know the reaction I’ll get — it’s too early to stop.
When the time is right to stop we ride to the edge of the metropolis of Monte Quembo. It’s a dusty, dirty little town set just off the highway. We check it out and can’t find anything resembling a hotel, but we’re certainly attracting attention. Groups of men, hanging about the town, or sitting in the cafés turn and watch as we ride past.
We head to the petrol station on the highway and get directions to a hotel that’s in the town. We still can’t find it so I ask a lady who seems to be in charge of parking. She directs us back down a street we’ve checked out before. To get there we need to do a U-turn. She puts up her ‘stop’ sign and holds up the traffic so we can get around.
An old man walks out and points us further down the street. Finally we see the hotel at the back of a restaurant. It’s fairly rundown and doesn’t look inviting. The woman in the restaurant shows me the room. It’s a shit box — no doubt about it. The bedroom isn’t too bad but the bathroom is verging on unspeakable.
The next town is 165 kilometres away and it’s too late to press on. We take it for the overpriced rate of 120 pesos (about $30).
I’m thoroughly depressed but spark up a little when I buy a large icy cold Quilmes beer from the restaurant for just 10 pesos (about $2). It’s the cheapest beer we’ve had so far and tastes great. The restaurant meal is pretty good and they keep the red wine in the fridge so it’s very refreshing on this hot evening.
When it comes time to turn in we find the sheets seem clean, which is a good thing. The bathroom lives up to my initial reaction. I have a shower and the water doesn’t run away because the drain is blocked. I have a pee, flush the toilet and it nearly floods. There’s no basket for the paper even though it is clear that paper is clogging it up. Bloody hell!
Brian: There’s nothing to keep us here so we’re up early and on the road to Salta. We stop at a town about 100 kilometres away for breakfast. All we can find are sweet biscuits and Sprite. Not nutritionally sound, but it hits the spot.
Salta is our last stop in Argentina. From here we’ll head further east and then north.
In the town we visit the Museo de Arqueologia de Alta Montaña, dedicated to three Incan children sacrificed to the gods some 500 years ago. Preserved in the ice more than 6,000 metres high in the Andes the mummies are incredibly well preserved. The display of the ornaments, clothing and toys found with the children is haunting. How could anyone sacrifice children to appease the gods?
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The Quebrada area is set in a basin between two sections of the Andes mountains. Over millions of years erosion has created some amazing land formations and they’re what we came here to see.
We’ve booked a tour and our local guide picks us up from the hotel. Bill Smith — yep, that’s his name — doesn’t check the paperwork and it isn’t until he says that Brian’s name isn’t very English that we realise he’s not our guide. He was meant to pick up another couple, from Asia, at the hotel. Bill makes a few calls and drops us off at a shop to meet up with the right guide and the tour to Cafayete through Quebrada de Cafayate.
We stop at an amphitheatre cut into the rock face. The acoustics give the local musicians a perfect platform to display their talents. There are two groups that take it in turn to play and then sell their CDs to the tourists. The tourist police are keeping an eye on proceedings.
This rock formation is exquisite. The deep red rock walls tower above us, showing how the rocks have moved over the centuries.
The colours of the landscapes in the Quebrada are incredible, caused by the many minerals in the soil. Deep reds and ochres and the palest of cream coloured rocks. It’s similar to Australia’s Painted Desert.
At the Devil’s Throat you can clearly see the channel made hundreds of years ago by the waterfall that gives this formation its name. We’re blessed, they say, because we see the condors flying overhead.
There are other pieces of rock, like the one shaped like a priest that stands at the top of a pathway, the needles, the Titanic, which does bear some resemblance to a ship sinking, and the frog — all caused by wind and rain. The erosion doesn’t stop, of course. They say the frog won’t look like a frog in another couple of years.
The erosion plays havoc with the roads too. Our bus has to back up and around a couple of mighty washouts.
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Shirley: In Cafayete we’re offered one of the local delicacies — llama salami. So far I’ve managed to avoid eating guinea pig and I don’t really want to eat something as cute as a llama. Despite reservations I try a bit and I’m pleased that it isn’t that good.
At the restaurant for lunch Brian tries the local Burra beer — so named because it has a kick like a mule.
This has been the perfect way to spend our last day in Argentina. Now it’s time to head back into Chile and up the coast to Bolivia.