Dangerous, or delightful, or something like that...

Doubtless many people do this. 

Get up on chilly October Wednesday in West Swindon; feed hens and ducks; light a wood-stove, empty ash pan and griddle a Rayburn; write chalk welcome boards; don running shoes and lope round Peatmoor lagoon, a couple of times; have boiled egg and toast; pack books, shirts, shorts, sandals, tennis racket, passport, and metal bits (to go with bridles); worry about un-finished work, and emails, especially unanswered ones; get taken by spouse to Swindon bus station; meet favourite sister there; board coach for Heathrow; trip on escalator; be the randomly-chosen one for full bags search at airport security; board TAM Boeing B777 bound for Brazil; watch sky at night, six miles above the Atlantic; and end up in cool pool on hot day in the heart of South America, darkest but delightful Paraguay.

Maybe not. But, for better or worse, I did.

Of course, this makes it all sound simple. But, of course, it was not. There were memorable if miniscule adventures. For example, in departure lounge, the supper snack of notionally-hot beef au something or other was shredded, cold, and inedible, and, with support from favourite sister, got sent back. But you do not want to read about the woes of an un-seasoned traveler.

At Arrivals in Asuncion, Paraguay, we, sister and brother, got welcomed and whisked away by big brother, literally, to look for a book on a boat. Within minutes, we were on a river rock boat, a battered old barge-like thing, made of weathered wood and heavy metal, moored to the sandy bank of the great Rio Paraguay. From without, it looked lifeless but when big brother clapped his hands, literally, a voice from within cried, ´Pase no mas´ (Come on). So we did, on the most springy and curved of gang planks, onto an iron ship; from there, onto a wooden one, and from there onto the wood and metal one. Following big brother, we went into its bowels and found a man, the captain, eating guiso (pasta, meat, and manioc) and two crew lolling close by. With the friendly captain´s permission, big brother took us on a tour of the fascinating places on this ancient barque. These included the baño (bathroom) a wide whole just above the water-line but with the river swirling below. Apparently, when the boat is loaded, the waves and water get closer to your nether regions and make defecating more dangerous, or delightful, or something like that.    - The battered boat tour went on but, I suspect, you have heard enough.

So the obvious next thing to do was to find a street vendor with roast chicken and mandioca. And, of course, we did and medically-minded sister set aside her fears, tucked in with relish, and agreed that this was better than airplane food. 

Here we were, fresh off the plane, still on our first day in Paraguay, and already well into the sub-tropical city lifestyle. Now we needed to know the city, get to grips with its culture. So went for a walk. First, across the Plaza Uruguaya, from which all the protesting peasants and workers have been cleared, to a better place one hopes, and which is now surrounded by high black wrought iron fence, its sand replaced with paved paths, and tree trunks newly-painted white. From there, to the Cabildo, former courts of justice but now museum of indigenous artefacts, sitting in great columned and marbled spleandour, protected by terere-sipping gun-toting security guards, but with not any other soul in sight. More like a morgue than museum and yet, magnificent.

From there, we passed the riverside slums and strolled gently on to the Presidential Palace, a great illuminated heavily-guarded horseshoe-shaped southern imitation of the White House of the north.  There, we chose to stop, for a beer, contemplating the Palace´s spleandour and wondering if it masked an inner squalor. Well, I did anyway. What we all really did, sister and brothers, united, was pinch ourselves and say, ´Are we really here?´

Well, we are, and tomorrow, joined by brothers three and four, the final pieces in the surviving Holland sibling jigsaw, we head out of the city, across the great river, and into the Chaco, known by some as the Green Hell and by others as a wonderful sanctuary of bird life and all things natural, not counting the vast new soy bean farms. 

If we make it across, and to Makthlawaiya, the settlement of indigenous people, the Lengua, where once, as children, we lived, really lived, we may get to ride with gauchos, swim with piranhas, or hunt with Indians, or maybe even just sit under mango trees to watch oven birds build nests, leaf-cutter ants carry their loads, or grapes ripen on the shade-giving  vine.  Yes, and with a cold beer or glass of chilled wine. Some bits are but some bits are not, tough, in the tropics.

Hasta la proxima.