Paraguay and Buenos Aires

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We arrived in Asuncion, Paraguay in good spirits. The streets were awash with red, white and blue in celebration of the country's bicentenary. Despite being the capital city, Asuncion feels strangely intimate, yet it's American style blocked streets run for miles.

Our arrival marked Australia day and, uncannily, we met two Australians who, in the name of patriotism, had already been indulging in the festivities for a good twelve hours on account of the time difference.

With their encouragement, we adopted their heritage (and unnecessary use of profanity) for the day and began drinking early. As the day progressed, we drank more and more until, following a barbecue, we wound up in an English bar where any similarities to an actual English bar were few and far between. It was here that Pete was presented with an unforgettable proposition from an elderly American named George. I am not at liberty to include any major details (you should ask Pete for the full story), although I shall include that Pete was presented with the opportunity to receive the 'best seven minutes of (his) life'. Shocked, hysterical and slightly nauseated from the experience, we staggered back through the cool early morning to our hostel.

The next day, given the cultural significance of the bicentenary, we decided to sample the national museum, which once served as a parliamentary building. Here we learned little of Paraguayan history due to our tour guide´s disjointed English and our own lackluster Spanish skills (although we were allowed to cross one of the red ropes, intended to keep tourists out, and sit in the chair of an ex-president and national hero following a small donation). Our tour guide insisted that our donation was ´for the children´of Paraguay, however his grin led us to believe otherwise.

After two days, more drunkenness and a Paraguayan Foo Fighters tribute band, it was time to vacate Asuncion. En route to Buenos Aires, we were made aware, by word of mouth, of a carnival in Encaracion, which straddles the Argentine border to the south of Paraguay. Initially, we struggled to find a place to stay, having arrived at the coach station at midnight. Rummaging around numerous local hostels, it became apparent that nowhere had any rooms available. Trudging through the dusty night streets, we eventually found a hotel which, despite being slightly over-budget and off the beaten track, provided us with clean sheets and a hot shower; a god-send after so long on the road.

The carnival delivered everything it promised. Crammed into the wooden terraced stands we watched the procession of vibrantly colored floats and scantily clad dancers. Small children peddled artificial snow in a spray can which we took full advantage of and before too long we were soaked (and half blinded) by the foam.

The next day, with heavy heads and blood-shot eyes, we embarked on our next coach journey to Buenos Aires. The city, with its Parisian architecture, dense traffic and bustling pavements, has an overpowering European feel. Whilst certain aspects of the city remain rooted to their Argentine ancestory, Buenos Aires seems to have soaked up every possible influence of western culture; for example, the logos of McDonalds and Burger King are ubiquitous.

Amongst the masses of people that crowd the streets, we were no longer regarded as gringos as we had been in Paraguay. Rather we became anonymous tourists trying to navigate the labyrinth of endless blocks and towering buildings. The next ten days were to be the most exhausting of the trip thus far as we sampled various barrios by day and gained a taste of the local clubs and bars by night.

In Palermo, we ate and drank in quaint cafes, watching young professionals and couples go by along the tree-lined avenues from our roadside tables, whilst in La Boca we witnessed live salsa amongst the technicoloured neighborhood. Visiting La Boca, according to the various travel guides we read and travelers we spoke to, is hailed as a truly authentic Argentinian experience. It probably once was, however, it seems to have been smothered by tourism and, if you're looking for counterfeit football shirts and fridge magnets, then La Boca is the place to go.

At our hostel (Millhouse Avenue), which claims to be amongst the best so-called ´party hostels´in South America, the days and nights slowly merged into one and it became hard to differentiate between them. After a week of parties at the hostel, followed by adventures through the ever busy streets to various clubs (the most memorable being named Terazza del Este), we were more than ready to leave as the prospect of Patagonia became more tangible.

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