'Within weeks, I was a happy barefoot six-year old, the red earth of Paraguay between my toes and the bit of a boy-gaucho's life between my teeth.' from Paraguay 200 Years of Independence in the Heart of South America www.paraguay200.com
2011
a slow, natural, and seemingly-contented world all around
PARAGUAY 2011: October 2nd
Cicada wee, descending from the uppermost branches of an inga tree, is very fine. A spray of miniscule droplets, it does not drop, it floats. So fine, in fact, that some droplets evaporate on the way down. But others do not. There they are, I can see them now. Cicada wee droplets, sparkling in the sun, on the back of my hands and on my laptop. The joys of the jungle office.
-+
And now, with the sun on my back, toes in the hot red sand, the brown hornero (baker/oven bird, which makes an amazing two-chambered dome-shaped nest of clay) flitting about under the mulberry tree, and a slow, natural, and seemingly-contented world all around, it occurs to me, once again, how nice it is to be able to sit, watch, listen, think, and write at this Tropic of Capricorn pace. Never in my life have I knowingly lived or moved this slow. When I walk anywhere, I amble. Not unlike the Zebu cattle that wander past La Casita. They even swish their tails slowly, move their heads slowly, and chew the cud as if they had all day. It occurs to me that this slow pace of life in Belen is producing a languid leisurely pace of writing that many of you, in the busy busy northern hemisphere, will not have the time to read. It is likely that, if I were north of the Equator, I would not have the time or inclination to read it either, let alone write it. But anyway, while the terere´s still cold, here´s a bit more.
Even broadcasting procedures are slow and easy-going here. When the local radio people asked me on, I was delayed by half an hour (waiting to see a lead vine frond twirl its way round extra wire I put up on the arbour; yes, literally watching a plant grow) but their attitude was no hay problema and simply slotted me in to suit, with terere at the ready. While the presenter was quizzing me about the proposed Festival de Paye (shaman) a woman came into the studio (through the open window, I think) and started raging against all things shamanic. Strange, because I was not exactly advocating them. But fire, brimstone, and colourful language ensued. A la puta. Had the edge on Wilts local radio.
............
And suddenly, almost by surprise, my slow time in Belen has come to an end. There´s a lift into Concepcion on offer, a game of tennis too, and a camioneta ride back down south. Must go for all three.
You all doubtless know about the sense of sadness that departure brings but you may not be quite so familiar with the sense of release from the slow life. It´s interesting. Suddenly speeding up and communicating with city folk and hombres de negocio was something of a jolt to the system. And then, a vigorous game of tennis, on northern Paraguay´s solitary clay court, with peacocks calling high up in the trees about us, was another change of gear and environ.
The last little chapter up north saw me making my way out of Concepcion, by carito, of course. Teodoro, the one-eyed waggoner was not only happy to oblige but had his little grey yegua (mare) take us at a gentle trot round the houses, literally, down the backstreets, and through the old markets. A great ride. Our destination was Concepcion´s La Rotunda, from where I was to connect with a lift south. It´s a spot where four roads meet, heading south, east, north, and west. And what a spot it was! All life was there. Found the tiniest of outside bars (two plastic chairs, a battered Brahma beer sign, and an old woman, resting) next to the tiniest of tyre stops (gomeria, a pile of old tyres, one air line, three levers, and four men, not one underweight, sitting drinking terere) and an abundance of chipa, fruit, and knick knack sellers. A perfect spot to settle down with a beer, watch the working world go by, and happily wait for the lift promised for 4pm but more likely to appear at 5, 6, or who knows when.
Within two Brahmas and one chipa, my lift had arrived. Happened to be from an hombre de negocio who distributes aire condicionado and was, of course, keen to show me how well the air conditioning worked in his spiffing 4x4. Because it had been close to 40 degrees al fresco roadside, I was, appropriately, in cotton shirt, shorts, and sandals, not at all ready for a 600km 5-hour drive in sub-zero temperatures. Indicating to him, in my best polite Spanish, that his aire was fantastic did not result in it being turned down, or up, or whatever was necessary to put an end to goose pimples and shivers. When we stopped for fuel , I got out, to warm up in the delicious 27 degree diesel-scented night air.
Saturday saw me in a happier space: a decrepit sports stadium in the middle of Paraguay full of grace and beauty, with lovely people (who remind me of home -:)) I was checking out a fantastically-basic but beautiful event, the Segunda Convencion de Circo y Malabares en Paraguay (Juggling Convention by any other name) taking place in the historic small-town of Pribebuy (which was, for a very brief period, declared the capital of Paraguay, by one of its most infamous dictators, and is the last remaining place where the famous poncho de sesenta listas is handmade by one Rosa Segovia). At the entrance, I met two of its committed organisers, the engaging Laurel and the sharp Rafa, both of whom clearly knew the time of day, not to mention the pull of gravity, the benefits of pleasure, and the joys of good company. – For the next annual convention, they have been thinking about finding a new location. ´Long we had not talked, ére we built up a pile of better thoughts` that took us north, to the southern Tropic, by a nice little river . . .
Now, am almost at this journey´s end and am making one last-ditch attempt to spend one more day deep in swamps with camalotte, aquatic birds, and other waterland wildlife, the kind I find I like the most.
To end, here is the first verse of Lugones´poem about the baker/oven bird.
EL HORNERO
La casita del hornero
tiene alcoba y tiene sala.
En la alcoba la hembra instala
Justamente el nido entero.
Hasta la vista amigos y amigas!
Continuity, nostalgia, and `small´ things.
PARAGUAY 2011: FIVE 26th September
Some of you will know that one of my many strenuous routines in Swindon is to go out of an afternoon, play tennis, eat a meat sandwich, greet and meet in a LitDev meeting or two, network on the streets, come home, feed hens and collect eggs, hands full of them, some balanced up my arms, give them a wash, pour myself a cold lager, and go to check emails.
Well, today, I suddenly realised I had done a Paraguayan parallel, a replica routine in the republic. -- The afternoon progressed like this. Went for a swim. Networked with fishermen, Mangoty minder, vaquero (cowboy), and checked out a chacra (smallholding). Ate meat and mandioca. Collected stones from nearby quarry. Came back with armful of them, oval multi-coloured ones, balanced up my arms. Washed them. Poured myself an ice-cold terere. Checked emails.
Spooky but pleasing. Home from home. Only here it was all done in sunshine, shorts, and sandals to Swindon´s indoor fires, farm footwear, and fleeces. But I´m not complaining, about either.
Talking of spooky but pleasing, home from home, and all that, how about this. One of the two year old poultry progeny here from the smuggled-in LSF eggs, a lovely Wellsummer Light Sussex cross, who officially belongs to the neighbour´s flock, snuck into my kitchen, while I was pruning the citrus trees, made herself comfortable in the open stove, and laid a big brown egg. - Fifty-eight years ago, in southern Paraguay, a tough little bantam would do the same, in my Bruderhof bedroom. Most days, when I got back from the community´s primary school, there, on my pillow, would be a little brown egg. Ah. Continuity, nostalgia, and `small´ things. What life´s about, at least partly.
Have I already raved about another bit of continuity here, horse riding, at night? Well, yesterday, I was having my near-nightly fix, clip clopping along among fireflies and nightjars under a starlit sky. (Actually, it was a much softer and more rhythmic sound than clip clopping, on grass, soft red dirt, and bits of swamp; also, clip clopping sounds far too northern-hemisphere and Dobbin-like, and the softly neck-reined light-footed horses here are just not like Dobbins). Anyway, suddenly, a leather strap on the bridle broke and, soft neck reining or not, I was no longer able to control my horse in the way he expected. To be able to do so was particularly important at night. So, I dismounted and looked at the problem. (A gaucho´s wise words of two years ago immediately came to mind. It´s best always to stay on your horse, when shutting gates, talking to strangers, or out at night, because that way, if you need to, you can get away quickly). Immediately, a neat western device, the head torch (thanks wwoofer Vikki) came in handy, as did a Swindon postman´s rubber band from the bottom of one of my pockets. The metal bit of the bridle would now no longer work but I remembered another bit of advice from the gauchos´university of life handbook. To control a horse, always go for the mouth, or the nose, but never the neck. A horse with anything, however flimsy, through its mouth is controllable. A horse with rawhide, rope, or chain round its neck is not. So, I found a bit of leather, tied it up with rubber band, slipped it through the horse´s mouth, and we were away, trotting on into the night. When we got back, the dueño del caballo (horse´s owners) was impressed and I was pleased, at having had a little adventure and solved a little problem. Asi me gusta la vida.
That night, neighbours Nonni and family invited me to supper. It was a real laid back on laps affair in clay-floored cluttered kitchen room, with lots of easy-going all-age laughter, empanadas and cerveza. Very nice.
Now, what would you rather have, a blood-sucking bat in your kitchen, a horned beetle in your bathroom, a green frog in your suitcase, or a larvae-like caterpillar on your laptop? Well, here, there´s no choice. I´ve had the lot, and am getting used to them. An absolute long-term and seemingly happy resident is the chameleon sucker-toed four-inch frog (am sure it has a shorter proper name) in the toilet. At night, it sort of comes out. Starts by croaking, a loud scraping sound, that makes me think the laptop´s crashing. If you switch the light on, the frog stays stock still, wherever it happens to be and in whatever position, perched on the shower head or on the edge of the cistern. Have worked out that it will not jump on me, nor touch me in any way, which is good. During the day, it flattens itself and is ´stuck´ to the tiled wall, usually in a corner, becoming almost invisible as it takes on the colour of its surroundings. Not really my idea of a bathroom companion, watching me, but am getting used to it.
Do you remember the plump pilot? Well he came by for a visit today. I noticed this ageing 4x4 drive round the lote (block, or 100 x 100 metre square of houses and gardens) a few times. It was Jose. He said that he could not find me because he was looking for a nicer house, ´like foreigners usually have.´ (he meant bigger, posher, more ostentatious). ´You are living among the poor. Your house is simple. And no swimming pool.´ he said. - ´It feels like luxury to me.´, I replied, ´What I mean is, it´s wonderful! And the neighbours seem very rich, in the way they live, with plenty of food and friendship. And the river´s a big swimming pool, for everyone.´ - ´Ah, yes´ he said ´they still live like Indians, who were sort of Communists. They shared things because they had to. They helped one another to get food and there was no way of storing it for long in the heat, so they either ate it or shared it, with no plans for the future. ´ - ´So they sort of lived like a community´ I suggested. - ´Yes´ he said ´but they did not progress. They thought everything belonged to everyone because they did not have a monarchy like we had in Europe (Jose is of Spanish descent) where, because the crown owned things, we learnt that property belongs to people. Like you, the British. An English man´s home is his castle.´ -- Jose had other theories too. For example, that the Pyramids were built by extra- terrestrials, and that Paraguayans are bad mechanics, because his starter motor was hanging off and we had to hold it in with a broom stick to make the cogs connect.
When Jose had gone the children dared come back. They wanted to borrow the rompe cabezas (= break heads) a jigsaw puzzle that produces a picture of Lower Shaw Farm. They have done it many times but like doing it again with their mates who have not seen it. They also borrowed two table tennis bats and balls to play at simply doing keepy uppies on the bats, because there is no table tennis table in the village. But soon, there might be!
During one of my prolonged sit downs with ice cold terere in wooden armchair outside house under inga tree, literally watching the world go by, I notice that Calle 14 De Mayo appears to have become the new drive by street, cruising zone for motos (mopeds and motorbikes, all usually quite small and unthreatening). All Sunday afternoon, a succession of couples, triples, quadruples, and quintets would come tootling by, chatting away, drinking terere, or on their mobiles, in motion, on their motos. They did not seem to be going anywhere, just riding along, up and down and round about. The women, especially the young, have a particularly striking way of riding, pert, straight-backed, and very at one with their moto. The men seem more to be riding it, wrestling with it, swerving a bit, and more slumped or crouched in their postures. Apparently, my ´poor´ neighbours tell me, once upon a time, everyone used to walk out on Sunday afternoon. None of this moto malarkey. Maybe it´s progress, eh?
At terere time today, the neighbours told me about when different fruit ripens, tons of it, apparently, in my garden. The main months are Feb, March, April, which is autumn here, for oranges, grapefruit, avocado, etc.. Alas, that time of year, lifest prep prevents Paraguay trip.
Was reading my book at bedtime in which, the authors said, he was asleep before his head hit the pillow. I´m not, for at least an hour after.
Buenas noches!
Riding in the campo, from dusk into darkness...
PARAGUAY 2011: FOUR 25th September
In the night it rained. Boy, did it rain.
OK. You probably don´t want me to go all English on you and keep going on about the weather, as I may have done before.But this was serious rain, like an unrelenting six-hour flood from above. Water, water, everywhere, and all of it to drink, by Nature. (Heavy rain seems so much more suited to the campo than cities and towns. Here, in the campo, the water has somewhere to go, to make things grow and swell rivers, whereas in town it´s just a nuisance and makes a mess. Here it makes rivers of life.) The hail was not so nice, a right pummelling for roofs and outdoor livestock, like being machine-gunned in the darkness, from on high. And the thunder was terrifying. First, it growled, and then, crashed right on top of you, right through you, again and again. The lightening was spectacular, tree-splitting forks of it, and sheets that illuminated the campo for miles, or maybe the whole universe. It was a six-hour show that put an end to sleep.
With daylight, all was new. There was a freshness to write home about. The neighbours say that a storm like this normally marks the first real day of primavera (spring). Flora and fauna certainly look happy, except for the shallow-rooted and blown-over banana trees (actually grasses). My first task, would you believe it, on this bright new day, was to unblock a drain,which was completely jammed with mud and branches. Using stubbled stems of mandioca plants as draining rods and broken stone as pipe support wedges, the job got done. And when the water flowed, didn´t it flow! A fabulous gush and rush of water, that soon was crystal clear. Joy was unconfined, as any drain un-blocker will know.
Yesterday evening, before the rain, I went for a ride, on Ñato, the horse in the book. (See page 69, http://www.paraguay200.com/ ) Nothing lovelier, than riding in the campo, from dusk into darkness. You know night is approaching when the howler monkeys roar. Then, it´s all quite quick, from light to dark. One minute the sun´s on your back and birds are singing, the next darkness is upon you, fireflies twinkle in the grass, and then stars above. Urutaus (whippoorwill or nightjar type birds) brown and silent, fly up from the red dirt track at your horse´s feet, fly off on silent wings, and alight 50 metres further on. As you approach,they take flight again. And then, on the way back (there´s always a way back, isn´t there?) your horse steps up its pace. You can feel it become purposeful and directed, drawn homewards. Oh yes, your horse knows you know. Robert Frost, in a poem, on a snowy evening, said so of his horse in chilly New England, USA. It´s the same here, in hot old Paraguay, SA. You can see why horses may be even better friends to man than dogs. They take you home!
In my little home here, made of stone, straw, and hardwoods, surrounded by inga, grapefruit, avocado, orange, tangerine, mammon, banana, mulberry, palm, jacca, and mango trees, plain tables and chairs, the doormat, to wipe the sand off your feet, bare or otherwise, is an unread folded August copy of the Guardian´s books pages. The text looks dense and out of place here. Life may be complicated but does it need to be that wordy? (Did I say that? -J)The pages look much better as a doormat here. Lucky to get that job. They could easily have been called on for a bigger if lower one.
So, today, by way of bond with my fellow parkrunners in the UK, all out at 9am in search of PBs over 5km, I went for a Paraguayan parkrun. Of course, where in Swindon I normally have 200 plus co-runners, here, I was alone, and quickly discovered why in Paraguay the preferred option to running and sweating is sitting and chatting. Children looked at me bemused, adults said things in Guarani which may not have been entirely complimentary, and gauchos tried to drive their cattle to keep up with me. There were moments of pleasure but sluicing through slippery red mud in sultry heat for half an hour, I finished legless, breathless, and drenched in sweat. Endorphins struggled to do their duty. Give me a frosty morning in Lydiard Park, any day!
Have been to launch party for Belen´s PAYE festival, pronounced Pajay, which, by any other name, means shaman. But nothing very shamanic about proceedings. Predictable speeches by nice people in nice setting on nice evening. They are hoping for cultural tourism with this festival but I fear, thankfully, that may not happen just yet. Far and away the most interesting chat was not with any shamans but with a plump pilot (light aircraft and military) who reckons there is a second Stonehenge hereabouts and wants to take me out dousing. He´s also in favour of the proposed hydro-electric dam project on the Rio Ypane, which could dramatically change this area. Hmmm. We also had a little chat about latest theories of time. Researchers working in one of the world's largest physics labs, under a mountain in central Italy, have, apparently, recorded neutrino particles travelling at a speed that is supposedly forbidden by Einstein's theory of relativity, which says that nothing can travel faster than the speed of light. They have discovered that neutrino particles have travelled, over a distance of 730km, sixty billionths of a second faster than light. If what´s been discovered proves to be true, information could be sent back in time, blurring the line between past and present and messing up the fundamental principle of cause and effect. An Oxford scientist said, "Cause cannot come after effect and that is absolutely fundamental to our construction of the physical universe. If we do not have causality, we are buggered." Oh dear, we wondered. Are we now all meant to feel buggered, figuratively speaking of course? Hope you are not, however you feel and wherever you are.
It´s time for a terere break, under the shade of the inga tree, with galletas and dulce de peanut.
Hasta la proxima.
The magical but somewhat forsaken Mangoty
PARAGUAY 2011: THREE 21st September
Well, writing this, I´ll need to take heed of Wordsworth´s dictum, which went something like this. Good writing is emotion recollected in tranquillity.
Tranquillity hereabouts is plentiful, a stunning starlit sky, occasional night noises from riverbank frogs, nightjars, and insects unknown, but am not sure I can keep the emotion at bay. Anyway, here goes.
Am writing this to you on a laptop under a vine arbour by a little house near a river in northern Paraguay. It´s been the kind of day, quite small in a way, when compared to matters of global importance, that may last a lifetime, the sort of time you appreciate being alive, and, maybe, alone, or with someone you know well enough for few or no words, to fully take things in, one ´small´ step at a time.
This is the day, Wednesday 21st September, to which my transatlantic trip has been leading, the day I get to Belen, to the little house, that apparently is mine, near the river and the magical but somewhat forsaken Mangoty, those twenty mango trees and the land around them, even closer to the river.
Late morning, a beautiful Paraguayan primavera (spring) day, Crescencio Ruiz (the regional minister for culture, one of those rare ministers of anything who still practices what he preaches, who regularly travels on the roughest of roads over huge distances to teach music to the poor and disadvantaged of northern Paraguay, with amazing results) dropped me on the outskirts of Belen, the large village/small town founded 251 years ago by the first Jesuits in Paraguay and lying smack bang on the Tropic of Capricorn (not many people can say ´the Tropic of Capricorn runs through the middle of my house´ ---- but I can -J) from where I proceed to haul book-laden bags the last kilometre along Calle 14 de Mayo (newly-paved but unnecessarily because it gets so little vehicular traffic that the grass is already pushing through and reclaiming what was its) to its very end, where proudly stands La Casita mia.
For the last 300 metres, I was joined by a welcome party of half a dozen children, who should have been at school or at least doing organised extra-curricular activities but that does not seem to be the way here. So excited was I on the final approach that, unfortunately, I stepped into a cow pat. Fortunately, it was mostly dry. Unfortunately, I caught the wet bit. Fortunately, I did not care.
The house is not only as it was, when I left it last year, but better. Neighbour Nonni has been true to his word (the word is everything here, especially in the campo [countryside] were written contracts are rare and policy, strategy, and mission statements even rarer; word is bond or it´s a knife in the ribs)and made all the improvements agreed. They are all very basic and plain. Like a stone floor in the kitchen. A kitchen table and two very plain benches but with backrests. Another wooden table and entirely wooden handmade unfussy chairs, upright ones and armchairs. Shelves and hooks. Pan tile kitchen roof, to replace the rusted corrugated tin. Brick chimney, for wood-fire kitchen stove. Wooden beds, with rope and raw hide. A simple little table, wood, of course, plain but not over-planed . The sandy ground under the trees round the house is a delight to bare feet, even mine. And the toilet still flushes like the Iguazu Falls. -- Everything´s here that a certain kind of man could want. A certain kind of woman too; although another certain kind of woman, or man, might, understandably, ask for more.
In the garden, of course, nature has taken its course. And because it´s spring, it´s a beautiful course. Green. Lush. Abundant. Rather more banana trees than I recall. The last of oranges hanging round and ripe mulberries falling to the ground. Tonight, as I write, something flowering and unknown, to me, is giving off the sweetest scent. Yes, the garden is just fine, as doubtless was the one in Eden.
The neighbours invited me to a lunch of guiso (meat spaghetti stewy thing) galletas (hard dry `rolls´) and fresh pineapple juice.
By early afternoon, I was off for a swim, all of two hundred metres´ walk from the house. In the little sandy river bay, the locals call Andres Puerto after a local lad who always preferred it to the main swimming area, I watched yellow butterflies dance, swifts skim the water, Zebu cattle come to nose the river´s edge and drink, and overhead, families of loritos (paraqueets) screech their wayward way across the sky. The swim was good. All I did was breaststroke, against the current, and swimming as hard as I could, was just able to hold my marker point on the bank. The current in the Rio Ypane flows at between 4 and 6km per hour. It means the river stays clean but also, with its whirlpools, eddies, and hidden rocks, annually claims lives (usually male) mostly round seasonal celebrations and times of macho bravura and drunkenness.
Next stop was Mangoty, to beat its bounds and drink from its fresh-water well. Cattle have knocked down parts of the wire and wooden fence, apparently, the native neighbours tell me, to gorge on mangoes and quench their thirst at the secret tacamar (muddy pond) that appears to be spring-fed. He offered to repair it. Was about to agree, when he said that, to do so, he would need fell a beautiful smooth-barked slender-leaved hardwood Ybirapuyta tree that stood close to the last big mango tree. Immediately, I changed my mind. For the time being, the fence could stay down till we found posts from elsewhere.
The Matias Mangoty sign had succumbed to high winds and was dangling vertically and unreadable. By climbing a dead tree and using my fingers as pliers, I was able to stretch and bend the holding wire back into place and the sign was back at its rightful angle, dangling skew whiff but legible. (Btw, there have been a flood of enquiries after Mangoty. People want to buy it. The scrubby bit of land that almost cost a life is now beginning to look like an inspired acquisition.)
Back to the river, for a rest on the bank and reflection on life here in the rural north, so different to large parts of the ´developed´ south, where people aspire more to the western northern hemisphere way of life. For example, in Asuncion and elsewhere south and urban, men who think themselves clever, avoid manual work by having meetings , projects, and writing reports; and ambitious women power dress and power paint, their faces. In the campo, north and south, this approach has not yet caught on, chiefly, maybe, because there is no call for it.
When I listen to locals, happily chatting in Guarani, their unique mother tongue, unknown and not used anywhere else in the world, and realise they are talking only about their local scene, or at best the national one, which means they know or care little of the mayhem, murder, and bits of good news from the rest of the world. An example, maybe, of blissful ignorance.
Ah, just in case you are following these ´postcards´ and expect some sense of chronology, better take you back to the start of the week in Concepcion, called ´the pearl of the north´. It´s a nice if sleepy town. Took me four hours to get a USB stick that worked. After waiting one and a half hours in one shop, I got exhausted and expressed my disappointment, a touch emotionally. Promptly, they called in the armed guard, big gun, bullet proof vest and all, and he came right up to me, invaded my space, and remained an invader, finger on trigger. Another hour later the problem was solved (the part was in the wrong box and it did not do what it said on the wrapper but how were they to know, they only unwrap and sell) and we all parted friends, with almost injurious hand-shaking and back-slapping. That evening, met with friendly norteños, usual but delightful suspects, for a group supper, big central dish of meaty and other bits from which we all picked while conversation flowed. One of them helped fix me up with a game of tennis, at local millionaire´s private club, against him and also local surgeon and regional vet player. We were all well-matched but Brit/Prgyn emerged with the spoils. As ever, endorphins did the rest.
Now, better go finish that lump of wild boar´s meet handed to me as I walked down 14 de Mayo. And then a little night walk, under the stars.
Hasta mañana amigos/as.
The chipa-seller, is no small lady and her basket is huge...
PARAGUAY 2011: TWO 19th September
Mid-afternoon, Asuncion, on our way to the Terminal Central, through torrents of water and virtually empty streets (because people and drivers are scared of potholes and being swept away, which one motorbike is) Gabriel, el taxista, quiere hablar de poesía acróstica. We are about to hit on the Pantoum and Villanelle, when we make it to the colectivo (battered bus) which will take me to ´el interior´, a posh word for the campo. It´s been a most unusual ride. Taxista Gabriel sees the book I am reading, `Out Stealing Horses´, and warns against such activities in Paraguayan campo.
The book, set in Norway, is actually proving a pretty perfect read for Paraguay, though have read most so far at airports. Actually, reading in public in Paraguay is not really the done thing. But citing bits to friends in letters home might be, so here´s a pertinent passage. `All my life I have longed to be alone in a place like this. Even when everything was going well, as it often did. I can say that much. That it often did. I have been lucky. But even then, for instance in the middle of an embrace and someone whispering words in my ear that I wanted to hear, I could suddenly get a longing to be in a place alone, where there was only silence. . . . And now I am here, and it is almost exactly as I had imagined it.´ And this. ´Time is important to me now, I tell myself. Not that it should pass quickly, or slowly, but be only time, be something that I live inside and fill with physical things and activities that I can divide it up by, so that it grows distinct to me and does not vanish when I am not looking. ´
The colectivo fills up with passengers, and when it´s completely full, including standing room, the traders with their wares start to get on, squeezing for space. Last to get on, the chipa-seller, is no small lady and her basket is huge. But she has been in a scrum before and knows how to shoulder and smile her way down the aisle. In fact, everyone knows how to smile and there is always room for more. The traders get on and off at impromptu stops along the way. It appear that by way of fare they make a gift to the driver and ticket collector, an empanada here, a chipa there, even the odd bottle of Coke. Maybe that´s why drivers and conductors are generally so ample here.
Plenty of folk in the campo are also ample. As I have heard more than one person say.` Talvez somos pobres aquí, pero nadie muere de hambre en Paraguay. ´ In fact, my welcome to Coronel Oviedo is marked by a giant barbecue and it´s pretty clear that they are not catering for anyone who does not eat meat, nay carcasses. Two kilos in, I have a craving for an LSF-garden salad. But the ice-cold Brahma beer is still good here.
Sunday is quiet in the campo and I am threatened with that silence I sought.( Beware what you wish for . . . ) It is broken by a visit from three people offering ´the word of God´, sort of Catholic converters. Though well into middle age, their behaviour is faux-youthful. They are zealously zealous. Furthermore, they appear not to be short of a Guarani or two and are well-fed, looking like they have been poured into their tight jeans and shiny shirts. Clearly, they think I need converting, so tell me about the early Christians, how they shared their worldly goods and had all things in common, called one another brother and sister, and lived a pure and simple life, free of pride and possessions. `We should emulate them!´, they urged. `How are you doing?´ I was tempted to ask. But they had to go. Their 4x4 was at the door.
That evening, a new experience came my way. It had to happen, one day. On a crowded colectivo (battered bus again) a man got up and offered me his seat. He looked about mid 40s and only half fit. I wonder what he thought my age, and state of health. After thanking him, a little voice in me said, let´s compete, a little pentathlon: wood splitting, digging hole where sides don´t fall in, running 5k, tennis 2 hrs, and standing all night on a racing colectivo. But neither of us felt young enough to get physically involved when an alcohol-fuelled altercation broke out in the back seats. We both became middle-aged, feeble, and detached.
500km later, at 3am, I was in sleepy sleeping Concepcion, just me, stray dogs, and loose horses. As I made my way along dark and puddled streets, there´d be an occasional huddle of norteños in a doorway, not sleeping, not talking, just hanging out, passing the night away, waiting for who knows what.
At the crumbling colonial Hotel Frances, I woke the sleeping guard, without touching his gun, and found my room on the edge of the tiled courtyard. In the humid night air, there was a smell of stale jasmine. It got blown away when I turned on the creaking fan.
Went to bed as the first cock crowed, well, siren went off, and dreamed of nearby places, Belen, Mangoty, and Rio Ypane (actually of the great plate of guiso I´d had in the Asuncion plaza, from a woman who laughed and ladelled with gusto and generosity to write home about).
Buenas noches y hasta mañana.
Saludos de Concepcion.
You must plan, do, and do, and do, and do, and do, said the proper grown up voice in me.
PARAGUAY 2011: ONE 17th September 2011
For someone who travels little, even the short bits are remarkable. Within 1 hour 43 minutes of feeding hens at LSF and farewells at a windy Swindon bus station, I was checked in on TAM Flight JJ8084 at Heathrow´s Terminal 1 and the excitement had begun.
From now on, even though, or maybe because, just about everything was out of my hands, pilots, planes, and baggage lanes, nothing could or would be taken for granted.
Rumbling down the runway, lift off over London, box of jewels below, bed of white cloud, bright moon, dark sky, Bay of Biscay, Atlantic Ocean, the A330 Airbus took everything in its stride, while we passengers settled down inside, to movies, games, and plastic trays. Soon, blankets were out, lights were dimmed, and it was ´bedtime´ for one and all. Such obedience, conformity, and seeming contentment hurtling along at 600 miles an hour 6 miles above the raging seas.
The first hitch came in Sao Paulo. At Security Control, two of us were detained, that is, unintentionally presented a security scare. Aidan, from Stroud, with his nice smile, pony tail, gongs, and master quality singing bowls was held for longer than I was with my FN 7.62mm cartridge from the Battle of Boqueron, Chaco War, circa 1940. The empty cartridge, but for a little clay from the dried out Chaco lake, where soldiers died of thirst because the water was salty, was still in my bag from last year´s trip. It was taken away for identification and safety checks, and was returned to me 3 miles above the jungle on board TAM Airbus 320 Flight PZ713 to Asuncion. Last saw Aidan from Stroud still at Security in Sao Paulo Brazil, surrounded by uniforms, being de-gonged and told that his fluffy drumsticks were the problem because they could be used as weapons with which to strike people. He was still smiling but hardly looked like he was running one of his famed Therapy Group Gongbaths.
Twenty three hours after driving out of Shaw, I was prostrate in Paraguay, on the li-lo by the pool. The most strenuous things I did on that first afternoon was to lift an ice-cold Brahma beer to my lips, adjust the li-o to let me lie more low, and roll over, like a chicken in the sun. During the first couple of hours in Paraguay, I was overcome by a child-like sense of well being, bordering on happiness. Deluded maybe, but I felt free, alive, and even, foolishly, wise. Pretty soon, the feelings went, and I got on with practical matters of consequence, like deciding where to go and what to do. You can´t just travel across the world and simply be. You must plan, do, and do, and do, and do, and do, said the proper grown up voice in me.
So I did, and had to decide between an evening of socialising with good, nice, and safe people or listening to and talking with ´ímportant´, ambitious, and dangerous ones. Naturally, I chose the latter.
It was a seminario at the Vieja Facultad de Derechos, housed in what was once the home of the infamous Irish beauty, Madam Lynch, who once upon a time wowed, wooed, and won over many of Paraguay´s most powerful politicians. On this occasion, four of the country´s would-be powerful politicos were leading a discussion on re-election, the rights of former presidents of the republic to stand again for top office.
Well, in the white-walled, wooden-windowed, cooly-tiled lecture room, they could have begun by having a mic that worked, a decent MC, and starting on time. When they did, the intros and roll calls were yawningly-long, and most of the earnest speakers clearly mistook solemnity for seriousness. Only one, my friend the bearded prof, knew the value of a good story and the role of humour when you really want to make an important point. One of the political speakers, a clean-cut Cameron look alike minister with small portfolio but big black car, arrived late and without his speech, which was on his laptop, which was stolen from his big black car in a smash and grab raid on his way to the gig. So he ad-libbed, on law and order. To which the wise prof added, ´I predict that most of you will leave before the end of this discussion because you will not want to make your way home after 9pm in Asuncion, for fear of being robbed.´
So I left, and the prof came too, and we had empanadas and beer on a pavement table at the Lido. We had a very nice time. Truly lovely. Really good chat, plenty of shared humour, even ribald laughter. And I felt human again.
Second day, the pleasure continued. Jogged to Asuncion´s Sporting Club Aleman to play an Argentinian tennis vet on a hot red-clay court. Nice environment, with chopis singing in the trees about us and on the cancha close by, cool stripe-shirted footballers doing prolonged keepy uppies. After two hours of long rallies, savage slice, and tricky topspin, the Argentinian vet was edged out by the English-Paraguayan one, 7-6, 7-5. Endorphins did the rest. (To cross the Atlantic and do something I do and like in Swindon, is strangely settling and reassuring. When the backhand´s had a workout and is working well, everything else seems to work better too. )
That evening was Tina-time. Had a lovely visit to this kind, upbeat, and rightly-famed Paraguayan ex-Bruderhofer, and her wheelchair-bound son Walter, who is also, more happily bound to the laptop left for him by brother John. ´He uses it many hours every day´ said Tina. ´It is wonderful. He loves it.´ While the men drank terere on the pavement outside, Tina and I had a good chat in her parrot painting-lined front room. She sends good wishes to all who know her.
My third day in Paraguay, actually Asuncion, a hot and noisy capital city, which, to me, is a place apart from the Paraguay I come to see and be in, was spent in planned contact with Guyra Paraguay (land and wildlife protection agency) and surprise contact with Present-day Bruderhof folk, who I met, perchance on a hot Avenida Espana. They said they looked at that man striding towards them with beard, backpack, and sunglasses, and I said I looked at their beards, sandals, and headscarves. And the consequence was, I ended up spending a lovely evening at Bruderhof House (Villa Primavera) with 20 members celebrating 100 days to Christmas. We had supper, with a reading of life in the Chaco wilderness, followed by a walk and then a return to the house along a candles in jars-lit path (not unlike the LSF drive at Carols by Candlelight) and a succession of melodious Christmas songs, sung in so many parts and harmonies, finishing with huge slices of home-made Stollen, and stories.
This morning, Asuncion has woken up to fat raindrops and crashing claps of thunder. Heading out to the campo promises to be an adventure!
Hope all´s well wherever you are. It occurs to me that most of you will be too busy for all these words. But if not, enjoy. They come to you with home thoughts from abroad.
Hasta la proxima.
PARAGUAY 2011: October 2nd
Cicada wee, descending from the uppermost branches of an inga tree, is very fine. A spray of miniscule droplets, it does not drop, it floats. So fine, in fact, that some droplets evaporate on the way down. But others do not. There they are, I can see them now. Cicada wee droplets, sparkling in the sun, on the back of my hands and on my laptop. The joys of the jungle office.
-+
And now, with the sun on my back, toes in the hot red sand, the brown hornero (baker/oven bird, which makes an amazing two-chambered dome-shaped nest of clay) flitting about under the mulberry tree, and a slow, natural, and seemingly-contented world all around, it occurs to me, once again, how nice it is to be able to sit, watch, listen, think, and write at this Tropic of Capricorn pace. Never in my life have I knowingly lived or moved this slow. When I walk anywhere, I amble. Not unlike the Zebu cattle that wander past La Casita. They even swish their tails slowly, move their heads slowly, and chew the cud as if they had all day. It occurs to me that this slow pace of life in Belen is producing a languid leisurely pace of writing that many of you, in the busy busy northern hemisphere, will not have the time to read. It is likely that, if I were north of the Equator, I would not have the time or inclination to read it either, let alone write it. But anyway, while the terere´s still cold, here´s a bit more.
Even broadcasting procedures are slow and easy-going here. When the local radio people asked me on, I was delayed by half an hour (waiting to see a lead vine frond twirl its way round extra wire I put up on the arbour; yes, literally watching a plant grow) but their attitude was no hay problema and simply slotted me in to suit, with terere at the ready. While the presenter was quizzing me about the proposed Festival de Paye (shaman) a woman came into the studio (through the open window, I think) and started raging against all things shamanic. Strange, because I was not exactly advocating them. But fire, brimstone, and colourful language ensued. A la puta. Had the edge on Wilts local radio.
............
And suddenly, almost by surprise, my slow time in Belen has come to an end. There´s a lift into Concepcion on offer, a game of tennis too, and a camioneta ride back down south. Must go for all three.
You all doubtless know about the sense of sadness that departure brings but you may not be quite so familiar with the sense of release from the slow life. It´s interesting. Suddenly speeding up and communicating with city folk and hombres de negocio was something of a jolt to the system. And then, a vigorous game of tennis, on northern Paraguay´s solitary clay court, with peacocks calling high up in the trees about us, was another change of gear and environ.
The last little chapter up north saw me making my way out of Concepcion, by carito, of course. Teodoro, the one-eyed waggoner was not only happy to oblige but had his little grey yegua (mare) take us at a gentle trot round the houses, literally, down the backstreets, and through the old markets. A great ride. Our destination was Concepcion´s La Rotunda, from where I was to connect with a lift south. It´s a spot where four roads meet, heading south, east, north, and west. And what a spot it was! All life was there. Found the tiniest of outside bars (two plastic chairs, a battered Brahma beer sign, and an old woman, resting) next to the tiniest of tyre stops (gomeria, a pile of old tyres, one air line, three levers, and four men, not one underweight, sitting drinking terere) and an abundance of chipa, fruit, and knick knack sellers. A perfect spot to settle down with a beer, watch the working world go by, and happily wait for the lift promised for 4pm but more likely to appear at 5, 6, or who knows when.
Within two Brahmas and one chipa, my lift had arrived. Happened to be from an hombre de negocio who distributes aire condicionado and was, of course, keen to show me how well the air conditioning worked in his spiffing 4x4. Because it had been close to 40 degrees al fresco roadside, I was, appropriately, in cotton shirt, shorts, and sandals, not at all ready for a 600km 5-hour drive in sub-zero temperatures. Indicating to him, in my best polite Spanish, that his aire was fantastic did not result in it being turned down, or up, or whatever was necessary to put an end to goose pimples and shivers. When we stopped for fuel , I got out, to warm up in the delicious 27 degree diesel-scented night air.
Saturday saw me in a happier space: a decrepit sports stadium in the middle of Paraguay full of grace and beauty, with lovely people (who remind me of home -:)) I was checking out a fantastically-basic but beautiful event, the Segunda Convencion de Circo y Malabares en Paraguay (Juggling Convention by any other name) taking place in the historic small-town of Pribebuy (which was, for a very brief period, declared the capital of Paraguay, by one of its most infamous dictators, and is the last remaining place where the famous poncho de sesenta listas is handmade by one Rosa Segovia). At the entrance, I met two of its committed organisers, the engaging Laurel and the sharp Rafa, both of whom clearly knew the time of day, not to mention the pull of gravity, the benefits of pleasure, and the joys of good company. – For the next annual convention, they have been thinking about finding a new location. ´Long we had not talked, ére we built up a pile of better thoughts` that took us north, to the southern Tropic, by a nice little river . . .
Now, am almost at this journey´s end and am making one last-ditch attempt to spend one more day deep in swamps with camalotte, aquatic birds, and other waterland wildlife, the kind I find I like the most.
To end, here is the first verse of Lugones´poem about the baker/oven bird.
EL HORNERO
La casita del hornero
tiene alcoba y tiene sala.
En la alcoba la hembra instala
Justamente el nido entero.
Hasta la vista amigos y amigas!
Continuity, nostalgia, and `small´ things.
PARAGUAY 2011: FIVE 26th September
Some of you will know that one of my many strenuous routines in Swindon is to go out of an afternoon, play tennis, eat a meat sandwich, greet and meet in a LitDev meeting or two, network on the streets, come home, feed hens and collect eggs, hands full of them, some balanced up my arms, give them a wash, pour myself a cold lager, and go to check emails.
Well, today, I suddenly realised I had done a Paraguayan parallel, a replica routine in the republic. -- The afternoon progressed like this. Went for a swim. Networked with fishermen, Mangoty minder, vaquero (cowboy), and checked out a chacra (smallholding). Ate meat and mandioca. Collected stones from nearby quarry. Came back with armful of them, oval multi-coloured ones, balanced up my arms. Washed them. Poured myself an ice-cold terere. Checked emails.
Spooky but pleasing. Home from home. Only here it was all done in sunshine, shorts, and sandals to Swindon´s indoor fires, farm footwear, and fleeces. But I´m not complaining, about either.
Talking of spooky but pleasing, home from home, and all that, how about this. One of the two year old poultry progeny here from the smuggled-in LSF eggs, a lovely Wellsummer Light Sussex cross, who officially belongs to the neighbour´s flock, snuck into my kitchen, while I was pruning the citrus trees, made herself comfortable in the open stove, and laid a big brown egg. - Fifty-eight years ago, in southern Paraguay, a tough little bantam would do the same, in my Bruderhof bedroom. Most days, when I got back from the community´s primary school, there, on my pillow, would be a little brown egg. Ah. Continuity, nostalgia, and `small´ things. What life´s about, at least partly.
Have I already raved about another bit of continuity here, horse riding, at night? Well, yesterday, I was having my near-nightly fix, clip clopping along among fireflies and nightjars under a starlit sky. (Actually, it was a much softer and more rhythmic sound than clip clopping, on grass, soft red dirt, and bits of swamp; also, clip clopping sounds far too northern-hemisphere and Dobbin-like, and the softly neck-reined light-footed horses here are just not like Dobbins). Anyway, suddenly, a leather strap on the bridle broke and, soft neck reining or not, I was no longer able to control my horse in the way he expected. To be able to do so was particularly important at night. So, I dismounted and looked at the problem. (A gaucho´s wise words of two years ago immediately came to mind. It´s best always to stay on your horse, when shutting gates, talking to strangers, or out at night, because that way, if you need to, you can get away quickly). Immediately, a neat western device, the head torch (thanks wwoofer Vikki) came in handy, as did a Swindon postman´s rubber band from the bottom of one of my pockets. The metal bit of the bridle would now no longer work but I remembered another bit of advice from the gauchos´university of life handbook. To control a horse, always go for the mouth, or the nose, but never the neck. A horse with anything, however flimsy, through its mouth is controllable. A horse with rawhide, rope, or chain round its neck is not. So, I found a bit of leather, tied it up with rubber band, slipped it through the horse´s mouth, and we were away, trotting on into the night. When we got back, the dueño del caballo (horse´s owners) was impressed and I was pleased, at having had a little adventure and solved a little problem. Asi me gusta la vida.
That night, neighbours Nonni and family invited me to supper. It was a real laid back on laps affair in clay-floored cluttered kitchen room, with lots of easy-going all-age laughter, empanadas and cerveza. Very nice.
Now, what would you rather have, a blood-sucking bat in your kitchen, a horned beetle in your bathroom, a green frog in your suitcase, or a larvae-like caterpillar on your laptop? Well, here, there´s no choice. I´ve had the lot, and am getting used to them. An absolute long-term and seemingly happy resident is the chameleon sucker-toed four-inch frog (am sure it has a shorter proper name) in the toilet. At night, it sort of comes out. Starts by croaking, a loud scraping sound, that makes me think the laptop´s crashing. If you switch the light on, the frog stays stock still, wherever it happens to be and in whatever position, perched on the shower head or on the edge of the cistern. Have worked out that it will not jump on me, nor touch me in any way, which is good. During the day, it flattens itself and is ´stuck´ to the tiled wall, usually in a corner, becoming almost invisible as it takes on the colour of its surroundings. Not really my idea of a bathroom companion, watching me, but am getting used to it.
Do you remember the plump pilot? Well he came by for a visit today. I noticed this ageing 4x4 drive round the lote (block, or 100 x 100 metre square of houses and gardens) a few times. It was Jose. He said that he could not find me because he was looking for a nicer house, ´like foreigners usually have.´ (he meant bigger, posher, more ostentatious). ´You are living among the poor. Your house is simple. And no swimming pool.´ he said. - ´It feels like luxury to me.´, I replied, ´What I mean is, it´s wonderful! And the neighbours seem very rich, in the way they live, with plenty of food and friendship. And the river´s a big swimming pool, for everyone.´ - ´Ah, yes´ he said ´they still live like Indians, who were sort of Communists. They shared things because they had to. They helped one another to get food and there was no way of storing it for long in the heat, so they either ate it or shared it, with no plans for the future. ´ - ´So they sort of lived like a community´ I suggested. - ´Yes´ he said ´but they did not progress. They thought everything belonged to everyone because they did not have a monarchy like we had in Europe (Jose is of Spanish descent) where, because the crown owned things, we learnt that property belongs to people. Like you, the British. An English man´s home is his castle.´ -- Jose had other theories too. For example, that the Pyramids were built by extra- terrestrials, and that Paraguayans are bad mechanics, because his starter motor was hanging off and we had to hold it in with a broom stick to make the cogs connect.
When Jose had gone the children dared come back. They wanted to borrow the rompe cabezas (= break heads) a jigsaw puzzle that produces a picture of Lower Shaw Farm. They have done it many times but like doing it again with their mates who have not seen it. They also borrowed two table tennis bats and balls to play at simply doing keepy uppies on the bats, because there is no table tennis table in the village. But soon, there might be!
During one of my prolonged sit downs with ice cold terere in wooden armchair outside house under inga tree, literally watching the world go by, I notice that Calle 14 De Mayo appears to have become the new drive by street, cruising zone for motos (mopeds and motorbikes, all usually quite small and unthreatening). All Sunday afternoon, a succession of couples, triples, quadruples, and quintets would come tootling by, chatting away, drinking terere, or on their mobiles, in motion, on their motos. They did not seem to be going anywhere, just riding along, up and down and round about. The women, especially the young, have a particularly striking way of riding, pert, straight-backed, and very at one with their moto. The men seem more to be riding it, wrestling with it, swerving a bit, and more slumped or crouched in their postures. Apparently, my ´poor´ neighbours tell me, once upon a time, everyone used to walk out on Sunday afternoon. None of this moto malarkey. Maybe it´s progress, eh?
At terere time today, the neighbours told me about when different fruit ripens, tons of it, apparently, in my garden. The main months are Feb, March, April, which is autumn here, for oranges, grapefruit, avocado, etc.. Alas, that time of year, lifest prep prevents Paraguay trip.
Was reading my book at bedtime in which, the authors said, he was asleep before his head hit the pillow. I´m not, for at least an hour after.
Buenas noches!
Riding in the campo, from dusk into darkness...
PARAGUAY 2011: FOUR 25th September
In the night it rained. Boy, did it rain.
OK. You probably don´t want me to go all English on you and keep going on about the weather, as I may have done before.But this was serious rain, like an unrelenting six-hour flood from above. Water, water, everywhere, and all of it to drink, by Nature. (Heavy rain seems so much more suited to the campo than cities and towns. Here, in the campo, the water has somewhere to go, to make things grow and swell rivers, whereas in town it´s just a nuisance and makes a mess. Here it makes rivers of life.) The hail was not so nice, a right pummelling for roofs and outdoor livestock, like being machine-gunned in the darkness, from on high. And the thunder was terrifying. First, it growled, and then, crashed right on top of you, right through you, again and again. The lightening was spectacular, tree-splitting forks of it, and sheets that illuminated the campo for miles, or maybe the whole universe. It was a six-hour show that put an end to sleep.
With daylight, all was new. There was a freshness to write home about. The neighbours say that a storm like this normally marks the first real day of primavera (spring). Flora and fauna certainly look happy, except for the shallow-rooted and blown-over banana trees (actually grasses). My first task, would you believe it, on this bright new day, was to unblock a drain,which was completely jammed with mud and branches. Using stubbled stems of mandioca plants as draining rods and broken stone as pipe support wedges, the job got done. And when the water flowed, didn´t it flow! A fabulous gush and rush of water, that soon was crystal clear. Joy was unconfined, as any drain un-blocker will know.
Yesterday evening, before the rain, I went for a ride, on Ñato, the horse in the book. (See page 69, http://www.paraguay200.com/ ) Nothing lovelier, than riding in the campo, from dusk into darkness. You know night is approaching when the howler monkeys roar. Then, it´s all quite quick, from light to dark. One minute the sun´s on your back and birds are singing, the next darkness is upon you, fireflies twinkle in the grass, and then stars above. Urutaus (whippoorwill or nightjar type birds) brown and silent, fly up from the red dirt track at your horse´s feet, fly off on silent wings, and alight 50 metres further on. As you approach,they take flight again. And then, on the way back (there´s always a way back, isn´t there?) your horse steps up its pace. You can feel it become purposeful and directed, drawn homewards. Oh yes, your horse knows you know. Robert Frost, in a poem, on a snowy evening, said so of his horse in chilly New England, USA. It´s the same here, in hot old Paraguay, SA. You can see why horses may be even better friends to man than dogs. They take you home!
In my little home here, made of stone, straw, and hardwoods, surrounded by inga, grapefruit, avocado, orange, tangerine, mammon, banana, mulberry, palm, jacca, and mango trees, plain tables and chairs, the doormat, to wipe the sand off your feet, bare or otherwise, is an unread folded August copy of the Guardian´s books pages. The text looks dense and out of place here. Life may be complicated but does it need to be that wordy? (Did I say that? -J)The pages look much better as a doormat here. Lucky to get that job. They could easily have been called on for a bigger if lower one.
So, today, by way of bond with my fellow parkrunners in the UK, all out at 9am in search of PBs over 5km, I went for a Paraguayan parkrun. Of course, where in Swindon I normally have 200 plus co-runners, here, I was alone, and quickly discovered why in Paraguay the preferred option to running and sweating is sitting and chatting. Children looked at me bemused, adults said things in Guarani which may not have been entirely complimentary, and gauchos tried to drive their cattle to keep up with me. There were moments of pleasure but sluicing through slippery red mud in sultry heat for half an hour, I finished legless, breathless, and drenched in sweat. Endorphins struggled to do their duty. Give me a frosty morning in Lydiard Park, any day!
Have been to launch party for Belen´s PAYE festival, pronounced Pajay, which, by any other name, means shaman. But nothing very shamanic about proceedings. Predictable speeches by nice people in nice setting on nice evening. They are hoping for cultural tourism with this festival but I fear, thankfully, that may not happen just yet. Far and away the most interesting chat was not with any shamans but with a plump pilot (light aircraft and military) who reckons there is a second Stonehenge hereabouts and wants to take me out dousing. He´s also in favour of the proposed hydro-electric dam project on the Rio Ypane, which could dramatically change this area. Hmmm. We also had a little chat about latest theories of time. Researchers working in one of the world's largest physics labs, under a mountain in central Italy, have, apparently, recorded neutrino particles travelling at a speed that is supposedly forbidden by Einstein's theory of relativity, which says that nothing can travel faster than the speed of light. They have discovered that neutrino particles have travelled, over a distance of 730km, sixty billionths of a second faster than light. If what´s been discovered proves to be true, information could be sent back in time, blurring the line between past and present and messing up the fundamental principle of cause and effect. An Oxford scientist said, "Cause cannot come after effect and that is absolutely fundamental to our construction of the physical universe. If we do not have causality, we are buggered." Oh dear, we wondered. Are we now all meant to feel buggered, figuratively speaking of course? Hope you are not, however you feel and wherever you are.
It´s time for a terere break, under the shade of the inga tree, with galletas and dulce de peanut.
Hasta la proxima.
The magical but somewhat forsaken Mangoty
PARAGUAY 2011: THREE 21st September
Well, writing this, I´ll need to take heed of Wordsworth´s dictum, which went something like this. Good writing is emotion recollected in tranquillity.
Tranquillity hereabouts is plentiful, a stunning starlit sky, occasional night noises from riverbank frogs, nightjars, and insects unknown, but am not sure I can keep the emotion at bay. Anyway, here goes.
Am writing this to you on a laptop under a vine arbour by a little house near a river in northern Paraguay. It´s been the kind of day, quite small in a way, when compared to matters of global importance, that may last a lifetime, the sort of time you appreciate being alive, and, maybe, alone, or with someone you know well enough for few or no words, to fully take things in, one ´small´ step at a time.
This is the day, Wednesday 21st September, to which my transatlantic trip has been leading, the day I get to Belen, to the little house, that apparently is mine, near the river and the magical but somewhat forsaken Mangoty, those twenty mango trees and the land around them, even closer to the river.
Late morning, a beautiful Paraguayan primavera (spring) day, Crescencio Ruiz (the regional minister for culture, one of those rare ministers of anything who still practices what he preaches, who regularly travels on the roughest of roads over huge distances to teach music to the poor and disadvantaged of northern Paraguay, with amazing results) dropped me on the outskirts of Belen, the large village/small town founded 251 years ago by the first Jesuits in Paraguay and lying smack bang on the Tropic of Capricorn (not many people can say ´the Tropic of Capricorn runs through the middle of my house´ ---- but I can -J) from where I proceed to haul book-laden bags the last kilometre along Calle 14 de Mayo (newly-paved but unnecessarily because it gets so little vehicular traffic that the grass is already pushing through and reclaiming what was its) to its very end, where proudly stands La Casita mia.
For the last 300 metres, I was joined by a welcome party of half a dozen children, who should have been at school or at least doing organised extra-curricular activities but that does not seem to be the way here. So excited was I on the final approach that, unfortunately, I stepped into a cow pat. Fortunately, it was mostly dry. Unfortunately, I caught the wet bit. Fortunately, I did not care.
The house is not only as it was, when I left it last year, but better. Neighbour Nonni has been true to his word (the word is everything here, especially in the campo [countryside] were written contracts are rare and policy, strategy, and mission statements even rarer; word is bond or it´s a knife in the ribs)and made all the improvements agreed. They are all very basic and plain. Like a stone floor in the kitchen. A kitchen table and two very plain benches but with backrests. Another wooden table and entirely wooden handmade unfussy chairs, upright ones and armchairs. Shelves and hooks. Pan tile kitchen roof, to replace the rusted corrugated tin. Brick chimney, for wood-fire kitchen stove. Wooden beds, with rope and raw hide. A simple little table, wood, of course, plain but not over-planed . The sandy ground under the trees round the house is a delight to bare feet, even mine. And the toilet still flushes like the Iguazu Falls. -- Everything´s here that a certain kind of man could want. A certain kind of woman too; although another certain kind of woman, or man, might, understandably, ask for more.
In the garden, of course, nature has taken its course. And because it´s spring, it´s a beautiful course. Green. Lush. Abundant. Rather more banana trees than I recall. The last of oranges hanging round and ripe mulberries falling to the ground. Tonight, as I write, something flowering and unknown, to me, is giving off the sweetest scent. Yes, the garden is just fine, as doubtless was the one in Eden.
The neighbours invited me to a lunch of guiso (meat spaghetti stewy thing) galletas (hard dry `rolls´) and fresh pineapple juice.
By early afternoon, I was off for a swim, all of two hundred metres´ walk from the house. In the little sandy river bay, the locals call Andres Puerto after a local lad who always preferred it to the main swimming area, I watched yellow butterflies dance, swifts skim the water, Zebu cattle come to nose the river´s edge and drink, and overhead, families of loritos (paraqueets) screech their wayward way across the sky. The swim was good. All I did was breaststroke, against the current, and swimming as hard as I could, was just able to hold my marker point on the bank. The current in the Rio Ypane flows at between 4 and 6km per hour. It means the river stays clean but also, with its whirlpools, eddies, and hidden rocks, annually claims lives (usually male) mostly round seasonal celebrations and times of macho bravura and drunkenness.
Next stop was Mangoty, to beat its bounds and drink from its fresh-water well. Cattle have knocked down parts of the wire and wooden fence, apparently, the native neighbours tell me, to gorge on mangoes and quench their thirst at the secret tacamar (muddy pond) that appears to be spring-fed. He offered to repair it. Was about to agree, when he said that, to do so, he would need fell a beautiful smooth-barked slender-leaved hardwood Ybirapuyta tree that stood close to the last big mango tree. Immediately, I changed my mind. For the time being, the fence could stay down till we found posts from elsewhere.
The Matias Mangoty sign had succumbed to high winds and was dangling vertically and unreadable. By climbing a dead tree and using my fingers as pliers, I was able to stretch and bend the holding wire back into place and the sign was back at its rightful angle, dangling skew whiff but legible. (Btw, there have been a flood of enquiries after Mangoty. People want to buy it. The scrubby bit of land that almost cost a life is now beginning to look like an inspired acquisition.)
Back to the river, for a rest on the bank and reflection on life here in the rural north, so different to large parts of the ´developed´ south, where people aspire more to the western northern hemisphere way of life. For example, in Asuncion and elsewhere south and urban, men who think themselves clever, avoid manual work by having meetings , projects, and writing reports; and ambitious women power dress and power paint, their faces. In the campo, north and south, this approach has not yet caught on, chiefly, maybe, because there is no call for it.
When I listen to locals, happily chatting in Guarani, their unique mother tongue, unknown and not used anywhere else in the world, and realise they are talking only about their local scene, or at best the national one, which means they know or care little of the mayhem, murder, and bits of good news from the rest of the world. An example, maybe, of blissful ignorance.
Ah, just in case you are following these ´postcards´ and expect some sense of chronology, better take you back to the start of the week in Concepcion, called ´the pearl of the north´. It´s a nice if sleepy town. Took me four hours to get a USB stick that worked. After waiting one and a half hours in one shop, I got exhausted and expressed my disappointment, a touch emotionally. Promptly, they called in the armed guard, big gun, bullet proof vest and all, and he came right up to me, invaded my space, and remained an invader, finger on trigger. Another hour later the problem was solved (the part was in the wrong box and it did not do what it said on the wrapper but how were they to know, they only unwrap and sell) and we all parted friends, with almost injurious hand-shaking and back-slapping. That evening, met with friendly norteños, usual but delightful suspects, for a group supper, big central dish of meaty and other bits from which we all picked while conversation flowed. One of them helped fix me up with a game of tennis, at local millionaire´s private club, against him and also local surgeon and regional vet player. We were all well-matched but Brit/Prgyn emerged with the spoils. As ever, endorphins did the rest.
Now, better go finish that lump of wild boar´s meet handed to me as I walked down 14 de Mayo. And then a little night walk, under the stars.
Hasta mañana amigos/as.
The chipa-seller, is no small lady and her basket is huge...
PARAGUAY 2011: TWO 19th September
Mid-afternoon, Asuncion, on our way to the Terminal Central, through torrents of water and virtually empty streets (because people and drivers are scared of potholes and being swept away, which one motorbike is) Gabriel, el taxista, quiere hablar de poesía acróstica. We are about to hit on the Pantoum and Villanelle, when we make it to the colectivo (battered bus) which will take me to ´el interior´, a posh word for the campo. It´s been a most unusual ride. Taxista Gabriel sees the book I am reading, `Out Stealing Horses´, and warns against such activities in Paraguayan campo.
The book, set in Norway, is actually proving a pretty perfect read for Paraguay, though have read most so far at airports. Actually, reading in public in Paraguay is not really the done thing. But citing bits to friends in letters home might be, so here´s a pertinent passage. `All my life I have longed to be alone in a place like this. Even when everything was going well, as it often did. I can say that much. That it often did. I have been lucky. But even then, for instance in the middle of an embrace and someone whispering words in my ear that I wanted to hear, I could suddenly get a longing to be in a place alone, where there was only silence. . . . And now I am here, and it is almost exactly as I had imagined it.´ And this. ´Time is important to me now, I tell myself. Not that it should pass quickly, or slowly, but be only time, be something that I live inside and fill with physical things and activities that I can divide it up by, so that it grows distinct to me and does not vanish when I am not looking. ´
The colectivo fills up with passengers, and when it´s completely full, including standing room, the traders with their wares start to get on, squeezing for space. Last to get on, the chipa-seller, is no small lady and her basket is huge. But she has been in a scrum before and knows how to shoulder and smile her way down the aisle. In fact, everyone knows how to smile and there is always room for more. The traders get on and off at impromptu stops along the way. It appear that by way of fare they make a gift to the driver and ticket collector, an empanada here, a chipa there, even the odd bottle of Coke. Maybe that´s why drivers and conductors are generally so ample here.
Plenty of folk in the campo are also ample. As I have heard more than one person say.` Talvez somos pobres aquí, pero nadie muere de hambre en Paraguay. ´ In fact, my welcome to Coronel Oviedo is marked by a giant barbecue and it´s pretty clear that they are not catering for anyone who does not eat meat, nay carcasses. Two kilos in, I have a craving for an LSF-garden salad. But the ice-cold Brahma beer is still good here.
Sunday is quiet in the campo and I am threatened with that silence I sought.( Beware what you wish for . . . ) It is broken by a visit from three people offering ´the word of God´, sort of Catholic converters. Though well into middle age, their behaviour is faux-youthful. They are zealously zealous. Furthermore, they appear not to be short of a Guarani or two and are well-fed, looking like they have been poured into their tight jeans and shiny shirts. Clearly, they think I need converting, so tell me about the early Christians, how they shared their worldly goods and had all things in common, called one another brother and sister, and lived a pure and simple life, free of pride and possessions. `We should emulate them!´, they urged. `How are you doing?´ I was tempted to ask. But they had to go. Their 4x4 was at the door.
That evening, a new experience came my way. It had to happen, one day. On a crowded colectivo (battered bus again) a man got up and offered me his seat. He looked about mid 40s and only half fit. I wonder what he thought my age, and state of health. After thanking him, a little voice in me said, let´s compete, a little pentathlon: wood splitting, digging hole where sides don´t fall in, running 5k, tennis 2 hrs, and standing all night on a racing colectivo. But neither of us felt young enough to get physically involved when an alcohol-fuelled altercation broke out in the back seats. We both became middle-aged, feeble, and detached.
500km later, at 3am, I was in sleepy sleeping Concepcion, just me, stray dogs, and loose horses. As I made my way along dark and puddled streets, there´d be an occasional huddle of norteños in a doorway, not sleeping, not talking, just hanging out, passing the night away, waiting for who knows what.
At the crumbling colonial Hotel Frances, I woke the sleeping guard, without touching his gun, and found my room on the edge of the tiled courtyard. In the humid night air, there was a smell of stale jasmine. It got blown away when I turned on the creaking fan.
Went to bed as the first cock crowed, well, siren went off, and dreamed of nearby places, Belen, Mangoty, and Rio Ypane (actually of the great plate of guiso I´d had in the Asuncion plaza, from a woman who laughed and ladelled with gusto and generosity to write home about).
Buenas noches y hasta mañana.
Saludos de Concepcion.
You must plan, do, and do, and do, and do, and do, said the proper grown up voice in me.
PARAGUAY 2011: ONE 17th September 2011
For someone who travels little, even the short bits are remarkable. Within 1 hour 43 minutes of feeding hens at LSF and farewells at a windy Swindon bus station, I was checked in on TAM Flight JJ8084 at Heathrow´s Terminal 1 and the excitement had begun.
From now on, even though, or maybe because, just about everything was out of my hands, pilots, planes, and baggage lanes, nothing could or would be taken for granted.
Rumbling down the runway, lift off over London, box of jewels below, bed of white cloud, bright moon, dark sky, Bay of Biscay, Atlantic Ocean, the A330 Airbus took everything in its stride, while we passengers settled down inside, to movies, games, and plastic trays. Soon, blankets were out, lights were dimmed, and it was ´bedtime´ for one and all. Such obedience, conformity, and seeming contentment hurtling along at 600 miles an hour 6 miles above the raging seas.
The first hitch came in Sao Paulo. At Security Control, two of us were detained, that is, unintentionally presented a security scare. Aidan, from Stroud, with his nice smile, pony tail, gongs, and master quality singing bowls was held for longer than I was with my FN 7.62mm cartridge from the Battle of Boqueron, Chaco War, circa 1940. The empty cartridge, but for a little clay from the dried out Chaco lake, where soldiers died of thirst because the water was salty, was still in my bag from last year´s trip. It was taken away for identification and safety checks, and was returned to me 3 miles above the jungle on board TAM Airbus 320 Flight PZ713 to Asuncion. Last saw Aidan from Stroud still at Security in Sao Paulo Brazil, surrounded by uniforms, being de-gonged and told that his fluffy drumsticks were the problem because they could be used as weapons with which to strike people. He was still smiling but hardly looked like he was running one of his famed Therapy Group Gongbaths.
Twenty three hours after driving out of Shaw, I was prostrate in Paraguay, on the li-lo by the pool. The most strenuous things I did on that first afternoon was to lift an ice-cold Brahma beer to my lips, adjust the li-o to let me lie more low, and roll over, like a chicken in the sun. During the first couple of hours in Paraguay, I was overcome by a child-like sense of well being, bordering on happiness. Deluded maybe, but I felt free, alive, and even, foolishly, wise. Pretty soon, the feelings went, and I got on with practical matters of consequence, like deciding where to go and what to do. You can´t just travel across the world and simply be. You must plan, do, and do, and do, and do, and do, said the proper grown up voice in me.
So I did, and had to decide between an evening of socialising with good, nice, and safe people or listening to and talking with ´ímportant´, ambitious, and dangerous ones. Naturally, I chose the latter.
It was a seminario at the Vieja Facultad de Derechos, housed in what was once the home of the infamous Irish beauty, Madam Lynch, who once upon a time wowed, wooed, and won over many of Paraguay´s most powerful politicians. On this occasion, four of the country´s would-be powerful politicos were leading a discussion on re-election, the rights of former presidents of the republic to stand again for top office.
Well, in the white-walled, wooden-windowed, cooly-tiled lecture room, they could have begun by having a mic that worked, a decent MC, and starting on time. When they did, the intros and roll calls were yawningly-long, and most of the earnest speakers clearly mistook solemnity for seriousness. Only one, my friend the bearded prof, knew the value of a good story and the role of humour when you really want to make an important point. One of the political speakers, a clean-cut Cameron look alike minister with small portfolio but big black car, arrived late and without his speech, which was on his laptop, which was stolen from his big black car in a smash and grab raid on his way to the gig. So he ad-libbed, on law and order. To which the wise prof added, ´I predict that most of you will leave before the end of this discussion because you will not want to make your way home after 9pm in Asuncion, for fear of being robbed.´
So I left, and the prof came too, and we had empanadas and beer on a pavement table at the Lido. We had a very nice time. Truly lovely. Really good chat, plenty of shared humour, even ribald laughter. And I felt human again.
Second day, the pleasure continued. Jogged to Asuncion´s Sporting Club Aleman to play an Argentinian tennis vet on a hot red-clay court. Nice environment, with chopis singing in the trees about us and on the cancha close by, cool stripe-shirted footballers doing prolonged keepy uppies. After two hours of long rallies, savage slice, and tricky topspin, the Argentinian vet was edged out by the English-Paraguayan one, 7-6, 7-5. Endorphins did the rest. (To cross the Atlantic and do something I do and like in Swindon, is strangely settling and reassuring. When the backhand´s had a workout and is working well, everything else seems to work better too. )
That evening was Tina-time. Had a lovely visit to this kind, upbeat, and rightly-famed Paraguayan ex-Bruderhofer, and her wheelchair-bound son Walter, who is also, more happily bound to the laptop left for him by brother John. ´He uses it many hours every day´ said Tina. ´It is wonderful. He loves it.´ While the men drank terere on the pavement outside, Tina and I had a good chat in her parrot painting-lined front room. She sends good wishes to all who know her.
My third day in Paraguay, actually Asuncion, a hot and noisy capital city, which, to me, is a place apart from the Paraguay I come to see and be in, was spent in planned contact with Guyra Paraguay (land and wildlife protection agency) and surprise contact with Present-day Bruderhof folk, who I met, perchance on a hot Avenida Espana. They said they looked at that man striding towards them with beard, backpack, and sunglasses, and I said I looked at their beards, sandals, and headscarves. And the consequence was, I ended up spending a lovely evening at Bruderhof House (Villa Primavera) with 20 members celebrating 100 days to Christmas. We had supper, with a reading of life in the Chaco wilderness, followed by a walk and then a return to the house along a candles in jars-lit path (not unlike the LSF drive at Carols by Candlelight) and a succession of melodious Christmas songs, sung in so many parts and harmonies, finishing with huge slices of home-made Stollen, and stories.
This morning, Asuncion has woken up to fat raindrops and crashing claps of thunder. Heading out to the campo promises to be an adventure!
Hope all´s well wherever you are. It occurs to me that most of you will be too busy for all these words. But if not, enjoy. They come to you with home thoughts from abroad.
Hasta la proxima.
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