same country, similar people, different century

Travels with siblings, in Paraguay

On Saturday morning, 20^th October 2012, we, the surviving Holland siblings, Ruthie, Andreas, Luke, John, and Matt, all of whom had spent formative childhood years in Paraguay more than half a century ago, met for breakfast (four years in the planning) in the little white-tiled Palmas del Sol hotel in downtown old Asuncion, two hundred yards from the great River Paraguay, along whose banks, within a few hundred yards of each other, are both shanty towns and government palaces.

It´s a real pinch-me moment for us all. The feelings of joy and incredulity are barely describable.  We think of our parents and eldest brother and those years all together, long, long ago, in Paraguay. 

And now, here we are again, same country, similar people, different century. What´s in store for us this time?

We load our baggage, literally and figuratively, into the hired and battered 4x4 and head off across Asuncion, Chaco-bound, in a tropical thunderstorm. The streets, of course, are awash. The presence and input of at least three navigators fails to prevent us finding the bridge over the great river.

As we drive deeper and deeper into the Chaco, which, though part of Paraguay, is, in geological and naturalistic terms, almost another country, with its stubble of palm trees, and intermittent swamp and termite hills, stretching as far as the eye can see, the oohs and aahs increase in intensity. Familiar and beautiful are tacamars (still water ponds) camalotte (swamp plants) black-billed jabiru storks, elegant white eagrets, pink flamingos, all manner of birds of prey, vultures too, plus countless darting and colourful smaller birds.

We stop for guiso lunch (meat and noodles) at Pozo Colorado (Red Hole) a mid-Chaco truckers´ watering  hole. For some reason, there, we laugh a lot. Drive on into the Chaco, described by many as the Green Hell of Paraguay, looking for Makthlawaiya, a settlement of hunter-gatherer indigenous people, the Lengua, with whom we lived fifty years ago during our last year in Paraguay.  Alas, we miss a key turning, an unmarked  clay-grey dirt road that leads across the swamp to the settlement.  As we continue more in hope than expectation of finding the right way, light is fading and we decide to postpone the Mak-trip till next day and instead, head for sweetly sleepy old colonial Concepcion, and the crumbling Hotel Frances, which has little to commend it but a tranquil atmosphere and fabulous swimming pool.

We manage to enjoy the pool but break the tranquillity with a full-on family row. Head off for supper to the Restaurant de Amistad (restaurant of friendship) but, outwardly at least, fail to live up to its name. However, as doubtless anyone reading this and with family knows, passionate and outspoken speaking often clears the air and strengthens certain bonds. So it is for us.   

Next day, 22^nd Oct, we make it to Makthlawaiya. Though the sky is grey, the air is still. It´s hot, and humid.  Lengua people, young and old, appear out of nowhere before we have time to properly announce our arrival to the pastor (religious man) and cacique (village chief).  We do, of course, to both. Strange, to be talking reverentially to two village elders who are both wearing Emirates and Samsung-branded clothing, battered, faded, and worn but multi-national corporate-branded nonetheless. There they were, wearing the trappings of Western culture but not part of it, or at least not direct beneficiaries.

This was an occasion that was meaningful to each of us in different ways.  For some it was endlessly fascinating, for others immediately exhausting. One thing´s for sure. Even though the natural world here was similar (we splashed and swam in the swamp and felt like children again and came across young boys who´d caught catfish with simple lines, just as we once did) the human one was not. There was an air of degradation and resignation. It was as if, apart from meager existence, nothing much was going on, and would continue not to go on for the foreseeable future. Lassitude and an air of weariness prevailed. Only when we talked of the past, or showed faded photos, did some old eyes on wizened faces light up.

Next day, 23^rd October, was Belen day, a trip to Matt´s place and Mangoty, the mango orchard, by the Rio Ypane. Witnessing the delight of siblings at seeing this writer´s little pan-tiled, stone-floored, fan-cooled, tree-surrounded hummingbird home was a joy. We had a great time in Belen, with short family horse ride that has minor (thankfully) mishap when one rider puts camera before the horse; one family row; simple neighbour-cooked rice, mandioca, and meat supper; friends (including ex-midwife Carmen and festival organiser Sonia) calling by; and Ms Humming Bird (Picaflor in Spanish, Maynumby Jeroky in Guarani) thrilling us all, both on and off her nest. On a single strand of dried grass from the thatched roof over the quincho (patio) a humming bird had made its tiny nest of spiders´ webs and spittle. A sign of sweetness in the house and good luck said the locals. There are times when we all need a bit of both. 

Siblings go for an evening walk to river, with sound of frog chorus and cicada calls all around. They swim and come back to give the whole scene a big thumbs up. In fact, so much so that next day, we delay departure from Belen so that some can go for a(nother) six-hour ride across the campo and others can go for canoe and swim down the river. Spoilt for choice in Belen.  We all go for final swim and watermelon on riverbank, followed by fresh fish supper of the highest order at nearby El Roble, Andressa and Peter´s LSF-like place.

Well-fuelled and muy contentos, we head off into the night, on the long drive south. 

Well past midnight, we roll into main square of Itacurubi del Rosario and find shared rooms with bed bugs in truckers´ tavern. Tiredness has overtaken us and clouded judgement but actually, next morning, the place does not look at all bad, and, as ever, age-old Paraguayan friendliness makes up for any lack of mod cons.  In fact, it´s one sibling´s birthday and near neighbour has laid us a birthday breakfast table we have a home-made card and fun presents. We have a good time.

Next, we head off to the Rio Tapiracuai, the holiday destination of choice in our childhood years.  It´s actually just a little but beautiful spot by a bend in a small river.  It´s full of childhood memories, which come flooding back as we play in the water and go for a 1,000-metre downstream swim. Aaah, the beauty of it.   More pinch-me moments for us all. We caught a fish, made a fire, and cooked supper on the river bank, then rolled out our paper-thin mats and lay down for the night, with fire flies all about, frogs in full chorus, and tropical river and jungle night sounds of every imaginable kind. 

Next day, woke up not that well-slept, but happy still to be on river bank. Washed in its waters and swam again. Caught two more fish, had two more arguments, and revelled in our sense of aliveness.

Went in search of places we used to live in community but struggled to find anything still standing and not razed to the ground to make way for soya beans, cattle grazing, and highways. In the end, it was only the river that was unaltered by human hand., even though an iron grid diving contraption had been built on its beautiful bend.

By 26^th Oct we were about at our journey´s end, Puerto Rosario on the Paraguay River, a place where in 1953 our journey began.  Our family had been brought up river from Asuncion in an old river boat. The river boat was gone, and so was the bustling port. But there was the very same gnarled and knotted tree, said to be more than two hundred years old, where Mum had told us to wait while our boxes and trunks were unloaded onto horse and cart, ready for their journey deep into the Paraguayan campo to the Bruderhof Community.

We found the perfect laid-back open plan shared room B&B by the river right beside the old port and had our last night together. We took a rowboat ride together at dusk, out into the great slow waters of the Rio Paraguay, where piranha strip your fish bait in seconds, avoiding the hook, and, if you are not under cover or fully sprayed up by nightfall,  mosquitos will eat you alive. We had a lovely time, another lovely simple supper, and another complex and necessary discussion. Can you live without words and relationships?  In the end was our beginning and in the beginning, our end. 

Now, 27^th October, this writer finds himself alone again, relatively speaking, in Belen, under the vine arbour, feet in bowl of cold water, to ward off heat blisters, bird song all around, and happy humming bird on nest. Noisy family of lorritos (paraqueets) have just flown by. The temperature´s perfect and there is more to be thankful for than to complain about. Wherever you are, I hope you are well.

You spend five years without seeing an Englishman at your little Paraguayan hideaway and suddenly two come by at once, on bicycles, of course, in the midday sun, struggling on the sandy road, wearing floppy hats, and sweating profusely. You invite them in and can only offer terere (cold mate sucked through a metal straw from a stopped cow´s horn) cold water, watermelon, and loo. They accept the latter two.  

We sit down under the vine arbour, just below and to the left of the humming bird´s nest, for a chat. Denise and John are a lovely unassuming middle-aged couple from East Anglia. They speak little Spanish and are thoroughly English in their ways. But that has not prevented them from having spent six months in Paraguay working on an English-teaching project which culminated in a performance (actually two performances, with people clamouring for more) with an entirely Paraguayan cast, of Macbeth, during which, at just the right moment (you all know the scene . . .) there was a real and actual eclipse of the moon. It was, apparently, magical, bordering on the spooky, and, some would say, could only happen in Paraguay. 

As would the latest interruption. A family from up the red dirt road, inviting me to their Sunday roast, of mandioca and armadillo.

Better go.  Saludos y hasta pronto!