On my wedding day, there was only one thing that my
new mother-in-law told me: “Whatever you do, don’t take my daughter to Paraguay.” Four weeks after our
wedding day, my wife and I were on a comfy coach to Asuncion, Paraguay’s capital, from Argentina, where we
were spending our honeymoon. I had got a commission from soccer magazine, FourFourTwo to cover the
city’s derby game. Not only was I taking my new wife to a “hellhole,” she was going to experience a Latin
American Superclásico, among the most dangerous hooligans in the world. This is not a normal football
match. And it was her first.
The source of my
mother-in-law’s stipulation was a marvellous book called At the Tomb of the Inflatable
Pig. It
describes John Gimlette’s travels around the country — it’s hilarious, bizarre and occasionally
saddening. Paraguay has some strange history. Through third person, my impression of this landlocked country
was a terrifying, corrupt, filthy, dangerous place with little more than a morally questionable president, a
history of one of the bloodiest wars in history (between 1865-1870 Paraguay lost two thirds of its male
population in the War of the Triple Alliance) and some tomb with an inflatable pig. But it wasn’t just one
book, most Argentines we told looked at us with a sort of bemused horror. “Paraguay”, “football”, “por Dios —
why?”
Few people have anything
to say about this land-locked country, and when they do it is overwhelmingly negative. The American
journalist and satirist PJ O’Rourke said of Paraguay, “It is nowhere and famous for nothing.” The CIA is even
less complimentary describing the triple border it shares with Argentina and Brazil, near the stunning Iguazu
waterfalls, as “a locus of money laundering, smuggling, arms and illegal narcotics trafficking, and
fundraising for extremist organizations.” It is even reported that the U.S. considered bombing the area after
9/11 because of the proliferation of al-Qaeda terrorists thought to be living there. Nearly everyone I met en
route advised against travelling there. This was, after all, where Hannibal Lector chose to move
to.
Our first stop was Posadas
on the Argentine side of the border. We didn’t want to stop there but my Canadian wife was turned around at
the border because Canadians and US citizens required a visa, few others did. We arrived on what we now know
was a Paraguayan public holiday — they are very religious people, especially when it comes to football — so
the consulate staff were presumably in a church somewhere over the frontier so we had tow it until tomorrow
to travel further. It was a small pleasant city what we could see through the torrential rain that abruptly
ended an unseasonably hot (35C) spell. We stayed the night and had the best meal of our
lives.
We were in La Querencia.
We didn’t know it was famous around the country, but we imagined it was after eating the stunning food and
before seeing dedications on the wall form the rich, famous and entirely corrupt (a word you’ll be reading a
lot in this article) politicians, including Carlos Menem, the former president. But there is only one
conversation subject in Argentina more popular than politics, and that is food.
Your guess as to what
Galteo is was as good as ours. Thankfully our friendly waiter (rare, but they are always polite)
explained: it was flattened chicken breast stuffed with bacon, red peppers and tomato grilled on the
parrilla, provolone cheese was then grated over the top. It arrives on a three-foot high skewer to stunning
effect; the waiter then slides a couple of pieces off on to your plate. It was absolutely divine, juicy
chicken meat, crispy on the outside, with fine bacon. With it, we ordered molleja (sweetbreads — my
food obsession, that was also the best I have ever tried and an expensive Malbec. We both declared there
and then this was the best meal we have ever eaten.
From Posadas (and again,
the best meal of our lives) we headed to Encarnación. A place I didn’t want to remember. From the
unusually tidy Posadas, for a border town, Encarnación is a seedy and poor town known only for its cheap electronic goods and drug smuggling.
Moneychangers and horribly young shoe shiners constantly hassled us at the bus station. We were on the next
bus out of there and I couldn’t wait. Even a trip around the bus station to buy
chipa
(a
tasty cheesy bread snack made out of tapioca flour, all but ubiquitous in Paraguay and northern Argentina)
made my heart beat. Paraguay is noticeably more deprived than Argentina. And while most Argentines are
planning their escape from their homeland to their grandparents’ homeland, Paraguayans head to
Argentina.
Once on the bus, we were
flying through green savannas watching gauchos herd their cattle. The red sun cast a beautiful orange hue
over the fertile land and palm trees. We arrived in Asuncion at dusk and opted to take a taxi. I hate taking
taxis but I just wanted a shower and glass of wine. Taking the taxi was something that made the trip.
Rolando, who later admitted to calling me a “puto tonto Argentino”
under
his breath when I asked if he knew where he was going — granted it was a dumb thing to ask a taxi driver —
became our friend who we would see everyday we were there.
Hopefully we will meet him
again, so much we want to return to this lovely capital city.
Stay tuned next week
for football, more friends, and the ugliest fish I have ever seen. •
Photo Courtesy: Daniel
Neilson
