Pottering, pondering, and playing, in Paraguay

It´s fascinating to realize that you can cross continents in order to feel more at home.   It´s become clear to me that I go away not so much for adventure, which happens whether I like it or not, but in order to be and feel more at home, in this relatively new Paraguayan-Belen home or in my old English-Swindon one, in which roots go far deeper.  Nothing pleases me more than to write about daily life and nature here in Belen; and nothing thrills me more than to receive an email about ´ordinary ´ life in Swindon or at LSF. 

After the hectic first fortnight of this trip, I´m now happiest pottering in Paraguay, especially here round the little 30 x 60-metre, 75-tree, heavily bird-populated garden of Casita. Because it´s so paradisal, I like to work it in a similar state of (un)dress that it´s reckoned Adam worked his. But no apples or Eves here, just grapes and snakes. Today, with a pruning saw bought from a hole in the wall hardware shop in Belen, I cut down arm-thick branches from the thriving inga tree that threatens to overshadow both vine arbour and house.  Felt like wwoofing solo in sympathy with the working weekend at LSF.

Yesterday morning, after a night of thunder storms, tormentas they call them here, and despite uncertainty whether my dodgy left knee would let me mount, I got a horse, with the intention of enjoying nature and time alone.  My chief aim was to find fat-fingered guitarist gaucho Augustin, he of the handsome muscular horse-whispering son.  He lives way out in the campo where they make charcoal and solitude. Last saw him 7 years ago.

With dark clouds above and roads of red mud below, I set off across the river and headed in what I thought was the right direction. Soon, fat raindrops fell and there was swamp and water everywhere. After 2 and a half hours, I had sort of lost my bearings and was beginning to think I´d missed a turning, such as they are out here.

Apart from wading birds and grey Zebu cattle, the first sign of life I saw after three hours´riding was a solitary gaucho having trouble rounding up a dozen or so cows. As I could see what he was trying to do, separate them from some others and get them from the campo to a track, I rode over to offer assistance, which he appeared to accept by simply by moving to the left flank of the herd and leaving me to control the right but without a word.

After about 20 minutes, and once we´d got them back on track, we moved closer to one another and exchanged greetings. ´Mbayshapa. -  Y Pona.´ - This was my opportunity to ask where I was and where the home of Augustin was. 

Well, he did not know Augustin but tried a few other names and Concha was one I knew, nicknamed ´Pavo´, (Turkey) and he instantly told me that I was 8kms wrong; that´s two hours of solitary swampy horse-riding wrong. Argh.

This was not good news. My left leg was aching, my throat was dry, my stomach was empty and my lively jegua (bay mare) was pissed off and wanted to go home.  (Horses always want to go home.  Go out, wherever you like, and the horse will find its way back, at twice the speed.)

So I turned back, rode another two hours and, with dusk approaching, decided to cut my losses and head home, another 2-hour ride back to Belen, which, at that stage, felt like a long haul and something of a disappointment, virtually a whole day on horseback, prob 20 miles plus, without reaching planned destination, but at least I´d managed to get back sans mishap. 
  
The hot and stormy weather has led to millions of Paraguayan ant's performing their annual mating ritual. A couple of days ago, the city of Concepcion (size of Wootton Basset) was blacked out/blanketed for a few hours by trillions of flying ants. A good few thousand of them have decided to date and mate, on Casita´s front doorstep. This is what is happening, and, from what I have found out, the process is as follows.  When weather conditions are right, both queen and male ants grow wings, surface from little tunnels, and embark on a 'nuptial flight'.

Once some ants begin to fly, others detect their chemical smell and join them. When a queen has mated, she remains fertile for the rest of her life. She either niftily discards or bites off her wings and tries to find somewhere to begin a new nest. If successful, she lays eggs in her new hiding place. These eggs hatch into infertile female workers who will build her nest, forage for food, and guard their queen. Each day of their life, the queen gives them one piece of advice. Oh, no, sorry, that´s a different story . When mating is over, the males die. That´s their only job, done.So, on my front doorstep is a writhing mass of sexually inactive slowly dying males. What shall I do with them?   

Leaving behind the ants dying for sex, or because of it, I headed off the 20kms to Concepcion to play tennis at the invitation of Dr Medina (who has bought Mangoty, for those following the story . . ) on red clay courts in a small private largely-outdoor sports complex in the middle of a jungle where from tree tops peacocks cry, howling monkeys howl, and insects of all shapes, sizes, and wingspan flutter round the tennis court lights. We played at dusk and into darkness, the only time it´s cool enough. Ofttimes, as you´d hit a cross court, backhand, or volley, you´d feel the racket strings scrunch and slash through assorted little or even big winged creatures. Bizarre and distracting, if not distressing.   

Next day, with a sense of urgency strange for Paraguay but brought on, in my case, by my days in the north being numbered, I set out once again across the now drying campo, this time on a two-wheeled motorised steed, in one final attempt to find ample Augustin, the gaucho guitarist. Well, to cut a two-hour story short (you don´t want to hear about mud, moto cross, and more mud) I found him. As I came out of a small patch of woodland and onto open termite-hilled campo, there, flanked by two giant tataquas (earth oven charcoal burners) was Augustin´s ramshackle but oh-so-homely little ranchito (homestead) where he and his amply-smiling wife have produced and brought up ten children and are now surrounded by grand ones, plus black and white Muscovy ducks, assorted multi-coloured bantams, a few ragged geese, and half a dozen beautiful horses. They also have a campo-grazing prize-winning herd of traditional grey Zebu, such proud, nervous, yet settled creature, so suited to the campo setting.

And there, under an old grapefruit tree, sitting on a log made for sitting on, chewing tobacco and sipping terere from a cow´s horn ´cup´ was Augustin, bombachad (baggy-trousered) but barefoot, a tad less rotund than 7 years ago but still with hands like leather, fingers like lapacho tree roots, and a grin that went from ear to ear.  He spat out his tobacco and gave me un abrazo (an embrace) that well and truly stuck our sweat together. - We sat down to charlar un poco (have a little chat) his Spanish being mostly Guarani and laughter and my Guarani being mostly Spanish and gestures. Of course, all the while, we sipped ice-cold terere from the weathered cow´s horn and occasionally I´d get a taste of his chewed tobacco. 

What´s the reason for making such an effort to see this old guy, I hear you say? Well, even though we (all people) are special, wonderful, and, in some way, a gift of and to life, there is something I find extra-wonderful about Augustin. Though rough, tough, and hewn from life on the campo, he makes me feel good inside; he feels like a real lover of the life he has found himself in, without longing for greener pastures, truly loving his ranchito, his family, his cows, and his guitar; and he makes me appreciate a life, that I already liked a lot, a whole lot more. I´m not sure exactly what he does to ´make the world a better place´ but he certainly feels, to me, like a gift to it.  (Am sure that each of us knows other ´hidden´ unheralded people like this.) 

Sunday was a sad day. It was time to say goodbye to Casita and Belen. The night before, I had supper at El Roble, Peter & Andressa´s LSF-style home that is a watering hole and feeding up place for weary backpackers. There were half a dozen there who spoke of their travels, ´doing South America´. - Kindly Christain, the German worker, took me home through the starlit night, and at dawn on Sunday, I slipped quietly out of Casita, with only one look back, and let strong Muller drive me the 10kms to the main road, to wait for a bus to Asuncion.  That´s like waiting for a bus from Edinburgh to London.  It came; I sat in it; it sped along and lurched occasionally, and I looked out the window, to maintain a horizon, for 600kms.

That evening, back in a bright white air-conned little hotel in Asuncion, cooling off and cleaning myself up ready for imminent departure back to England, I got a call (the mobile phone is everything here, whether you are in the city or campo) from a nice and young-sounding man who said this.  ´My name is Matt and I am looking for anyone who may have known my grandfather, who lived with a Christian community in Paraguay in the 1940s and 50s. I have been told you may be able to help me.´  -    Well, I did my best by booking a taxing, buying some beer, and taking him to terrific Tina´s house, she who knows all things Bruderhof/Community past and Paraguay past and present. With brother John´s help, we were able to put young Matt on the right track, which happened to be a railway track, because his grandad also worked on the Paraguayan railways and had told him stories of the sparks belching out of wood fires in steam trains setting fire to the campo along the railway lines in Paraguay.    

OK. It´s time to turn my nose north, for Brazil, the Atlantic, and England.  It turns out, I´m on the same flights back as the British Ambassador to Paraguay. We aim to meet between connections. Hope there´s no highjacking . . .

Looking forward once again to seeing all good people and things splendid in Swindon and at Lower Shaw Farm.

Hasta la vista amigos y amigas.