Advertisement
Published: November 18th 2023
There is peace in the valley.
It is as if all the rogues and ruffians, grifters and lifters, shovers, shouters, looters, corrupters and flouters of social norms had been redirected at an earlier junction. As if diablo's little imps and thieves and torturers and bandits had been lured to greener pickings, to richer spoils; leaving a few near-heavenly acres of remote urban existence to play out a parallel-style universe (at least to the casual eye) of quietude and gentle calmness, tucked up along the banks of a currently seething, flooding 3km-wide Parana River.
The little Argentine town of Goya (Godja, to the tongue) plies its slow trade alongside the 4,880km-long waterway that in turn divides Brazil, Paraguay, Uruguay and Argentina, harbouring the Iguazu Falls halfway along its stretch for good measure.
A flat river-plain town, almost as square in design as one might divine, is tailored so most of its drive-on-the-right roads between largely one-storeyed abodes and businesses carry one-way traffic that somehow adheres to an unofficial speed limit of between 30-40km/h. No head-on collisions, nor a need to look left and right.
Nobody shouts, nobody runs, vehicles do not
growl, dogs barely bark - content to sit in front of a homestead's front door to watch passers-by. Small cars, small motorcycles, bicycles and a few horse-drawn carts mingle amiably in this soft corner of Corrientes Province that earns its keep largely from massive, surrounding ranching pastures and the spin-offs of protected wetlands.
A long way from anywhere, and a long road to get here.
A decade or so prior I'd decamped from 12 years in Hong Kong to embark on a two-year backpacking road trip across Asia and Africa returning to the promised land, South Africa, still in its rainbow-nation, Mandela-era glow, peaceful-resolution darling of the world. "See how it can be done," enthused those abroad eyeing rich African pickings.
But after 10 years of muddling through the life of a quinquagenarian - with at least one eye on the decline of local social fabric, the rise in crime and violence and number of corrupt politicians, popular frustrations borne of a 40% unemployment rate, the implosion of municipal services, a desperately failing energy grid, xenophobic unkindness, negative twitching of potential foreign investors, dollops of latent racism, and the accompanying laager-mentality psychosis - a twitch under the
feet and between the ears suggested a time to get some fresh air, enjoy the laughter and lyric of language and life rather than its incumbent defensive dourness.
The frog is boiling.
Plot a year's route, or at least a start and end point: South America, bottom's up, Tierra del Fuego to Panama. As always, by land-based public transport.
Nothing's ever that easy. Months to tie up domestic matters, place everything on automatic, test the plastic cards, and get told I have to return to Hong Kong, if I wish to rekindle an old bank account.
It's a short hop from Cape Town to Rio de Janeiro. It is not, via Hong Kong.
Hours on the phone finally convince me to cash in more of my near-valueless local currency to head out east, at least into an old comfort zone.
Take in two South African airports before the long haul. Bizarrely, passenger announcements are regularly interspersed with the mellifluously incongruent: "Your security is our priority..."
Really? Not thank you for enjoying our lovely climate, or welcome to the land of zebras and giraffes? Security? If you need to keep your wits about you
in a tightly controlled environment, what awaits yonder, a foreigner might rightly wonder? First impressions, right? Time to go.
Half an hour in a Hong Kong bank, an attendant hits a button, and says, "all done, fixed, you'll have your card in five days, you could have done this from home".
"Erhm, you of course realise the inconvenience I've just incurred, flying more than halfway around the world to get from Cape Town to Rio?"
"Aah, so sorry for the inconvenience, sir."
Not so inconvenient: slide your card into an international currency ATM and draw US$, Yen, Euro, Renminbi straight out. In South Africa, apply to a bank online, book a sit-down transaction time, jump through a number of hoops days later.
Facial recognition has found me. Or perhaps found me again. Departing through Hong Kong airport, albeit with a permanent residency card, every passenger must stand on demarcated feet painted on the floor in front of a 'special customs' camera, get squared up, and snapped. On you go, sir.
Long ride to Rio, and the sing-song of Portuguese rings and buzzes in the ears.
Lilts and trills, joyousness in cadence, a land
of cedillas and tildes. Jesus pronounced 'jesoosh', 'rede' (hammock) pronounced 'hedgie'.
No hard Germanic R's, no serious gutterals.
'La lingua de angele', they call it, the language of the angels.
Brief schooling in Angola, visits to Mozambique, Portugal, and a year criss-crossing the north of Brazil in a previous millennium have bred a rudimentary linguistic tool-kit to deal with the most basic matters. If memory serves.
Land in old downtown suburb Santa Teresa, two-floor buildings between 50 and 150 years old, flaking walls, tatty mortar, urban grunge on a hot and humid hillside. Melt in, suck on a cachaca or two, and begin to feel the psycho-weight of 'home' begin to tease that it will lift.
A time of World Cup rugby fever. The Springbok semifinal against grudge opponents England takes place en route from HK. Cathay Pacific boasts sky-high wifi. Sadly streaming video proves tougher than the boast, a rare failure for a normally excellent airline.
How to watch the final in soccer-mad Rio de Janeiro, preparing sold-out Maracana Stadium for the continent's biggest club match of the year, the Copa Libertadores final between local heroes Fluminense and Argentine's Boca Juniors. A week
later Rio goes nuts as its team lifts the trophy for the first time.
Rugby? What's that.
Ipanema to the rescue: Shenanigan's Irish Pub opens especially early for the game, entertains around 300 punters, 250 being Kiwi supporters. A full 'Shosholoza' rings out from an unseen mouth at the final whistle.
In between days, an Africa-side acquaintance expresses fear for me in the big bad city of Rio. "Is it safe?"
Sidle lanes and alleyways, drink solo as the only foreigner in a bar, mutter through truncated phrases - revealing you are a gringo/stranger.
Not once have to glance over the shoulder, look at reflections in shop windows, close car door windows etc, although the habit is still there.
A hundred times safer than back home.
It will take a while for my South African toxic-build-up to subside, but already there is a hint of an ease of pressure on the shoulders.
The home frog boils.
A 24-hour bus ride to take a peek at Iguazu Falls, and a good lurch towards the continent's southern end, gets the show on the road. Lean back, look up, and discover many, not all,
long-distance buses carry USB charging plugs and on-board wifi across the country, for those wishing to indulge (much as electronic intrusion is anathema to any kind of long-term immersion experience). Slowly learn, as well, that near all public facilities carry free wifi: airports, bus terminals, cafes, restaurants, public parks et al.
Foz da Iguazu, the town on the Brazilian side of the falls, is part of a tripoint, where the borders of three countries intersect (Brazil, Argentina, Paraguay).
Tourism central. Everything neatly organised, and everything pointed at the 3km-wide falls, the widest on the planet, but in a constant biggest, bestest, boastest brand-battle, primarily with their northern cousin Niagara Falls, and also the locally lesser-known Victoria Falls.
Niagara Falls: 51m drop, 1,204m wide; Iguazu Falls: 64m drop, 2,682m wide; Victoria Falls: 105m drop, 1,707m wide.
Legend has it that upon seeing Iguazu, former US first lady Eleanor Roosevelt felt so abashed, she proclaimed: "My poor Niagara."
Local authorities have cannily placed the entrance gates to the Iguazu Park about 10km from the spectacle itself.
But, throw in a Thursday public holiday 'O Dia de los Muertos' (The Day of the Dead), a stolen Friday
bridge holiday, with the falls closed on the Argentinian side due to heavy flooding (the flow rate this year is estimated at 10-15 times the average, and Paraguay does not have visual access), and the resultant bun-fight-deluxe of visitors on Saturday leaves one somewhat bemused. A train of buses from the three surrounding towns lines up to drop punters at the turnstiles, a circus of around 10,000 at any one time. Bars, restaurants, kiosks do a gallant trade. Procure entry pass, and be told to wait, as all others nearby, for one-and-an-half hours for the buses inside the park to take one to the falls proper.
Finally arrive at the spectacle to be confronted by an 'Indian file' of thousands. An ambling path alongside the gorge overlooks the falling torrents. Sidle into the flow, that includes individuals and parties that want to walk faster, or slower. Three hours later, after a pleasant, if not somewhat crowded stroll, and most of the water action has been seen.
While the widest by some measure, the actual crest is broken by an array of islands into 275 separate flows. Visually spectacular, it however pales into insignificance against the 'crump' of Victoria
Falls' massive sheet of water crashing into the earth. The earth does not rumble and move, and the little puffs of spray are not on the same playing field as'the smoke that thunders'. Easy visceral victory for Victoria.
Do it again, with the crowds, madness, no thanks.
Head for Argentinia's cross-border town, Puerto Iguacu (new language, new spelling). A taxi from the Brazilian border affords a McDonalds-like drive-through customs experience. Stop at a small taxi-lane pill box, hand a passport and taxi driver's ID card through the car window. Two minutes later have them handed back, "welcome to Argentina, you have 90 days". No stamp in the passport "for ecological reasons of ink wastage", I am told. Oddly unnerving, but I am registered in the data bank, I am also assured. Overstay your tenure and you will be paying a fine, or worse.
What a difference a river makes, from the growing modernity of Brazil (the B in Brics) to Argentina (with an A in economic meltdown), carrying a monthly inflation rate of 11%-12%.
Local currency the Peso is formally pegged to US$1 at roughly 350 (Argentina also uses the $ sign for its
currency.) A legal, informal exchange process, known as the 'Blue Dollar', updated formally on multiple websites, tips US$1 against some 900 at time of writing. Change money in the bank for 350, draw money through an ATM at 350, buy Pesos with Dollars, get close to 900, depending on your bargaining skills. Small thanks for advance advice!
The national, fiscal mechanics are curious. Pop across the border, get some 'real' dollars. Pop back and near triple your money. The government allows this: free trade between consenting parties, seems to be the quiet, official line. In 1992 the rate was 1 Peso to the dollar.
Backpacker lodging switch from high-end efficiency to a *Brakpan special: beer, barbecue, marijuana, scantily clad gals and lads in humid heat, all backed by some funky salsa-variety tunes. *Skop-and-jol Argie-in-the-arvo style.
Chill, hang out, chuckle, pull out the compass, set sail for the southern tip, and try and intersect with a waypoint along the road: hooking up with a Golden Dourado (Salminus Braziliensis), a fierce pelagic (predator fish), somewhat of a cross between a tiger fish and a shad (South Africa style) or large trout, which can grow up to plus-20kg,
though generally found in lower, single digit kilograms. Despite its scientific name, it is not a member of any salmon family, and only lives in this broader neck of the woods.
Draw a dartboard-type circle around the potential zone, and throw a dart.
Goya!
A stranger on a strange shoreline can be a peculiar place for an angler. Deep water, shallow, clean, dirty, warm, cool, rain, sun, shade? The list is a mini dictionary. Ask any fisherman returning home with an empty bag, and the excuses are endless: the sea was too rough, too calm, the wind too strong, pressure was rising or falling, too much weed, or when conditions seem perfect, revert to the non-scientific "it was just a complete shutdown".
Am glad to add one more cop-out option: there is too much water!
Massive seasonal rains push the water over the river's levees, flooding thousands of low-lying homesteads.
For the past two months, precious cattle have been ferried from precarious islands to the safety of higher ground. The river has spread into fields, pastures, huge tracts of flat surrounding land, all offering new feed for the myriad tiny river fish that survive
on local vegetation. These are the natural prey of the pelagics, who in turn follow them out of the main river channels, and away from their 'normal' zones.
Trudge a river bank for hours, searching, casting, baiting, in vain. Finally procure the services of a local boatman, and discover an Okavango-like interior to the islands that proliferate this very big river.
Winding channels between heavy overhanging foliage, miles and miles of verdant forest, grassy plains, creeks that peter out into nothing, weed-blocked streams, and a cacophany of birdlife. Unlike the Okavango's deserty, dusty islands, everything here is lush, thick green.
Two days of plying the waterways elicits a dozen or so of the intended prey, though all on the lower end of the scale, with a 2kg, barely out of its nappies, trumping the show. They are tricky buggars, with bone-hard mouths, and a leaping athleticism. Several in the 5-7kg range announce their presence at the end of the line, hurtle skywards, look one in the eye, slap one around the cheek a bit, and spit the brass-burnished dummy. Foreign school fees paid.
Another day, another bend in the river, and an extra-sharpened hook. Tomorrow is
a long month.
Mama mojo watches amusedly from the wings, whimsically.
...............
*Brakpan: South African old-school working class town.
*Skop-and-jol: SA slang for 'wild party'
Advertisement
Tot: 0.052s; Tpl: 0.014s; cc: 14; qc: 23; dbt: 0.0203s; 1; m:domysql w:travelblog (10.17.0.13); sld: 1;
; mem: 1.1mb
Katherine Lapthorn
non-member comment
i remember you....
you're the one who makes me work for the pleasure of reading your tales:) Armed with google maps and Collins Online Dictionary I settled down to enjoy whatever it was you were about to deliver and loved every word of it. well, what's new and what took you so long and when's the next arriving? clever and riveting all wrapped up in a smile :) well done Lance