The Exploitation and Contradiction of South America – You\’re in America Now, Speak Spanish: Volume 4

Okay, I lied. I knew you wanted to read about animals being killed so I wrote a teaser at the end of my last episode in an attempt to persuade you to continue reading me. It worked, didn’t it? It’s what we in the business call…lying. But now that you are here, please read on.

Andy and I, being just a mere force of two now, heard about a celebration south of the border of Bolivia. Argentinean Independence Day was just around the corner, and, considering the reputation of Argentineans for being able to have a good time, we put it on our calendar to be in Plaza de Independencia in Tucum�n, Northern Argentina for the festivities. After waiting in line to cross into Argentina at their border for four hours and having ourselves and our luggage removed from the bus and inspected on five separate occasions, we realized Argentina must have some serious problems with Bolivia concerning what comes across its borders. We tried not to take that too personally.

Another realization was that we had basically transported ourselves from South America to Europe. No more broken down buses full of livestock and sacks of vegetables. Dogs kept as pets?! Wearing leashes? Bathrooms with toilet paper (AND toilets)? Where were we? The differences were endless. The ethnicity of the people was the biggest change. We crossed from a 50% pure Native American population to an 85% pure European blooded society. Fortunately, and unlike many others, we didn’t have to check our skin color at the border. But more about that in another chapter (that’s what’s called foreshadowing).

We arrived in Tucum�n full of anticipation but not necessarily expectation. For what it’s worth, however, I have been to the Running of the Bulls in Spain, Midsommer celebration in Sweden, Spain’s version of carnival, and a Snoop Dogg concert. So I do have (un)naturally high expectations for celebrations that have a tradition. At noon, from our hotel room, we heard the first of many explosions so we knew it was time. We grabbed our boxes of wine and headed for the masses of people in the plaza.

Arriving, there seemed to be a whole plaza full of confused, if not bored, onlookers conglomerating for some unknown reason. The reason we ultimately came up with was that they were there because others were there and vice versa. A few men on horses and a few soldiers stood at ease while security guards played grab-ass. According to a brief statement on television the president was in town and possibly in the cathedral this Independence Day. Ooooooooooooooooo! So? While the silent masses in the plaza scuffed their feet during this small, political manifestation, I felt rather embarrassed and unsophisticated to be standing there with my box of wine ready to crack it and start the celebration of Independence.

I thought, in Bolivia this many people in one place would surely constitute 1) a protest; or 2) a major celebration, a difference which is sometimes difficult to discern. Then I remembered what else the idiot box had told me earlier that day: Today’s Top Story: Fútbol superstar Batistuta returns to Argentina to accept his selection to the Argentinean National Fútbol squad. Right, fútbol is big news here but how can this story be more important than Independence? Batistuta had this to say when, tracked down by the Argentinean paparazzi as he stepped of his plane, and asked, “Does it feel good to be home?”, “Bueno…pueeeeees…sí, entonces…tengo sueño.” (loosely translated ‘Well, yeah, well, I’m kinda tired.’). Now THAT’S big news.

At that exact moment I had the revelation that the Lying Planet’s description of Tucum�n’s ‘especially vigorous Independence Day celebrations’ was a relative description. Relative to nothing. So we drank the wine. And we were happy for them even if they weren’t happy for themselves. And we were happy for Batistuta to finally beat that jet-lag from his especially vigorous international flight. But most of all, we were happy to move on to something much more shocking and odd: The Republic of Paraguay.

Heading east that night on a bus over the flat, yet bumpy Chaco, I came up with a metaphor which would become realized as time passed in Paraguay. For you geology buffs, the Chaco is a low-elevation, transitional zone East of the Andes where a ’secondary continental divide’ (the Andes being the east/west divide), sends water northeast to the Amazon Basin or south to the Paran� Basin which empties near Buenos Aires via El Río de la Plata. Powerful hydrologic forces from not very deep within the earth have been working several years in conjunction with powerful tectonic forces that have been working since the beginning of earth time to create this low-rainfall, sub-tropical, swampy geologic zone which covers most of Paraguay (the size of California) and part of northeast Argentina. Can you tell I am making this all up? No? Good.

Called by many ‘El Corazón del America del Sur’, the Chaco is subject to extreme temperatures and lacks the rainfall which affords the tropics their biological diversity. Scrub brush and palm trees dot the desolate landscape as do rare, tiny developments of subsistence farming. On the bus I imagined the natives of the Chaco to be rough and bumpy like the landscape but soft-hearted like the marsh; forgiving and kind like the shade of a palm but intense like the sun, rain, and bitter cold; thirsty and hungry like the plants and animals of the land; and tough like the Chaco itself.

So here we go. Having obtained our visas months ago due to more stringent immigration laws for US citizens (in response to new, tougher US policy for Paraguayans), walking across the border into the ‘Guay (’Why?) was nothing more than us showing our passports to some officials. They basically flipped through the pages of our passports for a geography lesson or for entertainment, shrugged their shoulders, gave each other confused looks, and smashed down a hearty stamp. We were in, but ‘guay?

Once in the capital, Asuncion, our assignment was clear. Meet the man, my brother Toren, who beckoned us to the Corazón. Without any way to get in touch with him, our options were limited and simple: Sit on the hotel balcony with a beer and wait until word came through the wind. It didn’t take long. Just 15 minutes later we saw the ONLY other man in Paraguay who could possibly be as dirty, smelly, blonde, and have as poor of a haircut as we did running across the street towards us dodging cars. It seems he had come to the same area as us by some act of… (fill in your favorite superstitious belief here ______).

I really don’t have the lack of words to properly describe what Asunción isn’t. If that isn’t confusing then my description is not complete. We spent the following days in Asunción discussing philosophies, future plans, past events, and malt liquors of the world, and scratching our heads as to why we were in a small area that holds 90% of the country’s population but has f— all to do. Maybe it was our problem. Maybe WE are the boring ones, but after one final night of drinking a special brand of caña (sugar cane liquor) called Tres Leones (three lions), we realized the following things:

1. We ARE the Tres Leones that are drawn so triumphantly on the label.
2. We have a big pride.
3. We need to see the real ‘guay.

The next day we were awoken at 12pm (lions sleep 18 hours a day) by an angry music video by Malitav, which provided inspiration for us. We fed, showered (for the last time in weeks), and consulted the guide books as to our next move. After several minutes read, Andy chucked his book against the wall and enlightened us all with the stern statement, “All my book tells me is how to get OUT of Paraguay!” That sole remark completely validated our presence in Paraguay and led us to the adventures that would follow. So we hopped on a bus and drove much, much deeper into the Chaco.

Did you like this article?

    

 

Share it

 

Place a comment